Then they walked back to where the packet had been last seen.  She had gone to pieces.  A few men waited on the beach, picking up the dead, and such boxes and packages as were dashed on shore.  Only three of all on board had been rescued, and they had been taken to the Keep for succor and rest.

The laird hastened home.  He had not felt as young for many years.  The struggle, though one of life and death, had not wearied him like a day’s toil at the works, for it had been a struggle to which the soul had girded itself gladly, and helped and borne with it the mortal body.  He came in all glowing and glad; a form lay on his own couch before the fire.  The dominie and Mrs. Hope were bending over it.  As he entered, Mrs. Hope sprang forward—­

“Father!”

“Eh?  Father?  What is this?”

“Father, it is Colin.”

Then he knew it all.  Colin stretched out a feeble hand towards him.  He was sorely bruised and hurt, he was white and helpless and death-like.

“Father!”

And the father knelt down beside him.  Wife and friend walked softly away.  In the solemn moment when these two long-parted souls met again there was no other love that could inter-meddle.

“My dear father—­forgive me!”

Then the laird kissed his recovered son, and said tenderly,

“Son Colin, you are all I have, and all I have is yours.”

“Father, my wife and son.”

Then the old man proudly and fondly kissed Hope Crawford too, and he clasped the little lad in his arms.  He was well pleased that Hope had thought it worth while to minister to his comfort, and let him learn how to know her fairly.

“But it was your doing, Tallisker, I ken it was; it has your mark on it.”  And he grasped his old friend’s hand with a very hearty grip.

“Not altogether, laird.  Colin had gone to Rome on business, and you were in sair discomfort, and I just named it to Mrs. Hope.  After a’ it was her proposal.  Naebody but a woman would hae thought o’ such a way to win round you.”

Perhaps it was well that Colin was sick and very helpless for some weeks.  During them the two men learned to understand and to respect each other’s peculiarities.  Crawford himself was wonderfully happy; he would not let any thought of the past darken his heart.  He looked forward as hopefully as if he were yet on the threshold of life.

O mystery of life! from what depths proceed thy comforts and thy lessons!  One morning at very early dawn Crawford awoke from a deep sleep in an indescribable awe.  In some vision of the night he had visited that piteous home which memory builds, and where only in sleep we walk.  Whom had he seen there?  What message had he received?  This he never told.  He had been “spoken to.”

Tallisker was not the man to smile at any such confidence.  He saw no reason why God’s messengers should not meet his children in the border-land of dreams.  Thus he had counselled and visited the patriarchs and prophets of old.  He was a God who changeth not; and if he had chosen to send Crawford a message in this way, it was doubtless some special word, for some special duty or sorrow.  But he had really no idea of what Crawford had come to confess to him.