"They said," answered Rob, "--'Was it your will set you on this beautiful hill, with all these things to love, with such air to breathe, such a father as you've got, and such grand deer about you?' 'No,' I answered. 'Then,' said the angel, 'there must be a better will than yours, for you would never have even thought of such things!' 'How could I, when I wasn't made?' said I. 'There it is!' he returned, and said no more. I looked up, and the moon was shining, and there were no angels on the stone. But a little way off was my father, come out to see what had become of me." "Now did you really see and hear all that, Rob?" said Alister. Rob smiled a beautiful smile--with something in it common people would call idiotic--stopped and turned, took the chief's hand, and carried it to his lips; but not a word more would he speak, and soon they came where the path of the two turned away over the hill. "Will you not come and sleep at our house?" said one of the company. But they made kindly excuse. "The hill-side would miss us; we are expected home!" said Rob--and away they climbed to their hut, a hollow in a limestone rock, with a front wall of turf, there to sleep side by side till the morning came, or, as Rob would have said, "till the wind of the sun woke them." Rob of the Angels made songs, and would sing one sometimes; but they were in Gaelic, and the more poetic a thing, the more inadequate at least, if not stupid is its translation. He had all the old legends of the country in his head, and many stories of ghosts and of the second sight. These stories he would tell exactly as he had heard them, showing he believed every word of them; but with such of the legends as were plainly no other than poetic inventions, he would take what liberties he pleased--and they lost nothing by it; for he not only gave them touches of fresh interest, but sent glimmering through them hints of something higher, of which ordinary natures perceived nothing, while others were dimly aware of a loftier intent: according to his listeners was their hearing. In Rob's stories, as in all the finer work of genius, a man would find as much as, and no more than, he was capable of. Ian's opinion of Rob was even higher than Alister's. "What do you think, Ian, of the stories Rob of the Angels tells?" asked Alister, as they walked home. "That the Lord has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the mighty," answered Ian. "Tut! Rob confounds nobody." "He confounds me," returned Ian. "Does he believe what he tells?" "He believes all of it that is to be believed," replied Ian. "You are as bad as he!" rejoined Alister. "There is no telling, sometimes, what you mean!" "Tell me this, Alister: can a thing be believed that is not true?" "Yes, certainly!" "I say, NO. Can you eat that which is not bread?" "I have seen a poor fellow gnawing a stick for hunger!" answered Alister.