“Ow! but I tuik the spy-glaiss till her,” answered Davy, reddening. “You are sure of her, then?” “I _am_ that, sir.” “Then come with me, and I will show you where she lives. I will not ride faster than you can run. But mind you don’t look as if you belonged to me.” “Na, na, sir. There’s fowk takin’ nottice.” “What do you mean by that?” “There’s a wee laddie been efter mysel’ twise or thrice.” “Did you do anything?” “He wasna big eneuch to lick, sae I jist got him the last time an’ pu’d his niz, an’ I dinna think he’ll come efter me again.” To see what the boy could do, Malcolm let Kelpie go at a good trot: but Davy kept up without effort, now shooting ahead, now falling behind, now stopping to look in at a window, and now to cast a glance at a game of pitch and toss. No mere passer-by could have suspected that the sailor-boy belonged to the horseman. He dropped him not far from Portland Place, telling him to go and look at the number, but not stare at the house. All the time he had had no return of the sickness, but, although thus actively occupied, had felt greatly depressed. One main cause of this was, however, that he had not found his religion stand him in such stead as he might have hoped. It was not yet what it must be to prove its reality. And now his eyes were afresh opened to see that in his nature and thoughts lay large spaces wherein God ruled not supreme--desert places, where who could tell what might appear? For in such regions wild beasts range, evil herbs flourish, and demons go about. If in very deed he lived and moved and had his being in God, then assuredly there ought not to be one cranny in his nature, one realm of his consciousness, one well-spring of thought, where the will of God was a stranger. If all were as it should be, then surely there would be no moment, looking back on which he could not at least say, Yet like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy. “In that agony o’ sickness, as I sat upo’ the stair,” he said to himself, for still in his own thoughts he spoke his native tongue, “whaur was my God in a’ my thouchts? I did cry till ’im, I min’ weel, but it was my reelin’ brain an’ no my trustin’ hert ’at cried. Aih me! I doobt gien the Lord war to come to me noo, he wadna fin’ muckle faith i’ my pairt o’ the yerth. Aih! I wad like to lat him see something like lippenin’! I wad fain trust him till his hert’s content. But I doobt it’s only speeritual ambeetion, or better wad hae come o’ ’t by this time. Gien that sickness come again, I maun see, noo ’at I’m forewarned o’ my ain wakeness, what I can du. It maun be something better nor last time, or I’ll tine hert a’thegither. Weel, maybe I need to be heumblet. The Lord help me!”