Morrison appeared to bear it all with calm dignity, but his wife, who was a quick-tempered, high-spirited woman, though delicate, felt the disgrace keenly. They moved in to Edinburgh, and Morrison tried hard to get another appointment, but in vain. The ban was upon his reputation—his name had appeared in connection with an accusation of mean thieving, and he was looked upon with suspicion even by strangers. At length he got employment for a few hours daily in keeping a tradesman’s books, for which he got nine shillings a week, and with that and a little copying and tuition he managed for a time to keep himself and his family alive. But poor diet and a mean habitation among the very roughest characters soon broke the spirit and constitution of his wife, and she passed out of his arms into her long rest before a year was gone. One of the children followed in three months, and he was left alone with the baby. He struggled on quietly and without complaint, shunning all, but ever ready when sought for to go and pray and converse with any of the sick or dying among the very poor who might express a wish for his presence. He became gaunt and thin, and the tradesman who employed him told him he needed a change of air. I met him more than once in some of the lowest slums, but I failed to recognise the bloodless face and stooping figure. I knew him as “the broken missionary,” and it was dimly understood that he had either been in prison or found guilty of some offence against the law, though the poor wretches with whom he conversed and prayed declared their firm belief in his purity and innocence. One day, at that time, I found a stout, red-faced man waiting for me at the Office, who nodded to me, and appeared greatly pleased at seeing me. I had to tell him that he had the advantage of me, and then he introduced himself as Mr Aikman, the deacon who had figured as such a prominent witness in the case against the minister. “I have been a cruel wretch, and I deserve ten years in prison for the misery I have brought on an innocent man,” he said, shedding tears freely—great hot tears, genuine as genuine could be. “A lady in delicate health belonging to our congregation was ordered to live abroad, and came back only yesterday. The moment she heard of Mr Morrison’s disgrace, she came to me and said that it was she who had sent the £5 note to the minister. She sent it from Edinburgh just as she was setting out. I am a sinful and wicked man! God help me! If I could only find out where he is—if you could help me to that—there is no atonement or reparation I should think too great to make to him and his poor wife and bairns. Every penny I have shall be spent in the effort.”