Aunt Kirsty came to him for her farewell with a big bundle in her arms. It was done up carefully in a newspaper and tied with yarn, and contained a huge lunch, composed of all the good things she had been able to cook in a day's baking. Roderick felt as if he could not eat anything between home and Montreal, but he took the bulky parcel gratefully and tenderly. She put her arms about him, the tears streaming down her face, then fled from the room as fast as her ample size would permit, and gave vent to her grief in loud sobs and wails. Old Angus followed his son out to the cutter in the shed. He stumbled a little. He seemed to have suddenly become aged and decrepit. It was not the physical parting that was weighing him down so heavily. Had Roderick been called to go as a missionary to some far-off land, as his father had so often dreamed in his younger days that he might, Old Angus would have sent him away with none of the foreboding which filled his heart to-day when he saw his boy leave to take a high position in the work of the world. Roderick caught the blanket off the horse, and as he did so his arm gave a sudden, sharp twinge. His face twisted. "Is it the old pain in your arm, Roderick, my son?" his father asked anxiously. "It's nothing," said the Lad lightly. "It'll be all right to-morrow." "You should see a doctor," admonished his father. "There will be great doctors in Montreal." "Perhaps I shall," said the boy. "Now, Father, don't stand there in the cold!" He caught the old man's hand in both his. "Father!" he cried sharply. "I--oh--I feel I shouldn't leave you!" "Hoots, toots, Lad!" The man clapped him upon the back comfortingly. "You must not be saying that whatever. Indeed it's a poor father I would be to want you always by me. No, no, you must go, but Roderick--" "Yes, Father." The old man's face was pale and intense. "You will not be leaving the Heavenly Father. Oh mind, mind and hold to Him!" Roderick pressed his hand, and felt for the first time something of the utter bitterness of that road to success. "I'll try, Father," he faltered. "Oh, I will!" He sprang into the cutter and took the lines, the old man put his hands for a moment on the Lad's bowed head praying for a blessing upon him, and then the horse dashed out of the gate and away down the lane. At the turn Roderick looked back. His father was standing on the snowy threshold where he had left him, waving his cap. A yellow gleam of wintry sunlight through ragged clouds lit up his face, the wind fluttered his old coat and his silver hair, and, standing there in his loneliness, he was making a desperate attempt at a smile that had more anguish in it than a rain of tears.