writhed in his indignation during the night, the only night his Glenoro congregation had disturbed his slumbers, and the next morning he was no nearer a solution of his difficulties. The poor young man was treading a hard road, one which was made all the harder because it was of his own choosing. For he had, like the foolish priests of olden times, tried to do, with carnal means, a holy task which demanded heavenly, and was suffering the naturally resulting confusion and distress. For he had forgotten that the Jehovah who demanded holy fire from Nadab and Abihu, does so even to-day; and the priest who raises unconsecrated hands to His altar must even yet hear the dread tones of the Omnipotent--"I will be sanctified in them that come nigh Me: and before all the people I will be glorified." X THE WATCHMAN'S DESPAIR The summer was gone. The harvest days, the days of crimson and golden woods, of smooth-shaven fields, of orchards weighed down with their sweet burden, and of barns bursting with grain had come. A tingle of frost in the bracing air told that they must soon give place to winter. One mild evening Duncan Polite sat at his shanty door, watching the sun go down behind the flaming trees. He knew the nights would soon be too chill for this pleasant pastime and he cherished each moment spent at his open door. In his sadness and anxiety, the glorious robes assumed by Nature at the sunset hour lifted, for a little, the shadow from his spirit. But to-night the sun went down in a colourless silver glow, which prophesied winter and storms, and to Duncan the grey dreariness seemed in keeping with his feelings. For Donald had gone back to the city that day, and when he had bidden the boy farewell the old man had also parted with his great aspiration. Donald had come to him the week before, and with his usual frankness made known the fact that he could never entertain any further thought of entering the ministry, and had therefore abandoned all idea of returning to college. The sacrifice of his education was a great trial to Donald, but he could not return under a false pretence. Duncan Polite made no appeal, uttered no reproof. He realised that he had been expecting this all summer, and he had become so accustomed to disappointments of the bitterest kind that this one did not move him as he had expected. "It will be between your own soul and your Maker, Donal'," he said gently. "And I will not be urging you; for only the Lord must guide you to this great work." He sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain he was inflicting Donald's heart suddenly contracted. "But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my lad,--yes," as Donald protested vehemently, "you will be doing this for me, for my heart will be in it, and if the Lord will not be calling you to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that will be a great thing, whatever."