His pack was unstrapped, and lay beside him on the snow. He had said to Lois that the toilsome journey would make him sleep all the sounder. Yes, so soundly that nothing earthly would awake him, ever any more. As they stood round him silently, with bowed heads, the clouds parted in the east and the great sun rose up. The snow changed from dull grey to sparkling white, the clouds floated in rosy brightness, and the sun still rose until its clear red light streamed across Willie's face. It was not hard to guess how it had been. The old man had found his way easily, as long as he kept upon the beaten path, but when he struck into the wild cross-track over the moor, the blinding mist and driving sleet bewildered him. The wind-driven snow drifted across the path and hid it, shrouding the familiar landmarks from his sight. It must have been as though a white mask lay over all the country. Willie had never got very far. They thought he must have tried to turn back, but not until he had quite lost his way, and then the darkness came on. At last, perplexed and probably very weary, he had lain down to rest where the big stone sheltered him from the wind. After that he did not suffer any more. Sleep and death came to him quietly, hand in hand. This was what Roger tried to tell Lois, when, going home before the others, he met her coming towards him along the road that led to the moor. 'Roger--well?' 'Dear Lois,' he said gravely and very tenderly, 'they are bringing him. I came on to tell you. He could not have suffered much.' 'Oh Roger, then he is dead!' 'Yes, Lois, yes. We found him lying on the snow, looking as if he had just fallen asleep.' 'Frozen to death. Oh, Roger--poor Willie!' 'Dearest,' he said, putting his arm round her, 'you would not cry if you had seen his face.' 'But such a lonely death!' 'He is glad now,' said Roger, with something like a sob. Was it a lonely death? Who knows? It may be that, bearing the summons home, God had sent some messenger from the unseen world, who had been suffered to become a visible presence to the closing eyes. It may be that some voice--perhaps his mother's--had sounded once again in the ears, where its echo had lingered so long. We cannot tell. Only no child's head was ever pillowed more peacefully in its dreamless sleep, than was Wandering Willie's, resting on the stone round which the snow had drifted. And who, that looked into his restful face, could doubt that the old man's prayer was heard? Down to the white moorland the Master sent at last, the message of recall, and hearing it even through the deep snow-sleep of that winter's night, His servant arose gladly, and from earth's storms and weariness he departed in peace. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET _BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG._