The following morning word was brought that there was work to be had at ——, across the hills, and that, perhaps, M’Kenzie might be able to get some. He sighed heavily, but he nodded assent, and, bidding his wife get the Bible from the shelf, and beckoning to the children to come and stand around him, he read the twenty-third Psalm, and his voice became firm and clear as he said,—“I shall not want,” for he said it in David’s spirit, and he believed it in his heart, and the sense of his failing strength that had clouded his brow, gave place to the assurance of faith, as he read the promise of the Staff that is of power to support the weak. And when he had prayed that in the might of the promise he might go forth, he lifted the hymn as usual; and it was a hymn of _praise_, so that the passing stranger might still have thought it went up from light and happy hearts. And so, indeed, it did; for how “shall the righteous be made sad, whom I have not made sad? saith the Lord God.” The morning worship over, M’Kenzie started on his long and toilsome walk. The embankment, which was the scene of labour, was full ten miles off, over moor and mountain, but he got there after two hours’ hard walking, and applied for employment. He was received, and at the end of the day was paid _one shilling_ for his toil; and he went further ere he turned towards his home, to spend his earnings in meal for his family. It was late ere he reached his cabin, his little ones had cried themselves to sleep. His wife, after watching long for his return, oft turning to her sleeping children in the sickness of hope deferred, and then again straining her eyes to look through the casement for her husband, had seated herself at the foot of the bed with her hands clasped tightly together, the indication of a strong mental effort to repress the feelings of anxious suspicion that were busy at her heart, and thus M’Kenzie found her. He shewed the bag of meal, and told her that he had no doubt of being employed at the embankment while the works were in progress; but as he spoke, his words became tremulous, his hand dropped, and he would have fallen, if his wife had not supported, and half dragged him to the bed. Reader, you have read in books of fancy and fiction, scenes of _imaginary_ faintings from _imaginary_ sources of emotion and of suffering, and, perhaps, you have wept at them; and for such _imaginary_ distresses, your tears were _enough_, nay, all too much. They will _not_ suffice here. M’Kenzie had walked ten miles to his labour. He had honestly put forth all his strength to his appointed task, he had made a circuit of six miles to get the oatmeal for his children ere he set out on his homeward path. ALL this he had done, and _he had not tasted food that day_. His wife succeeded so far in reviving him, that he raised his head and looked around, but he could not speak. She looked for a sup of milk in the earthen jar—their only remaining vessel of any kind,—but it was empty.