Dr. Moncrieff made no reply.  He moved his hand again with a little impatient movement, and walked on, leaning heavily on my arm.  And we went on for a long time without another word, threading the dark paths, which were steep and slippery with the damp of the winter.  The air was very still,—­not more than enough to make a faint sighing in the branches, which mingled with the sound of the water to which we were descending.  When we spoke again, it was about indifferent matters,—­about the height of the river, and the recent rains.  We parted with the minister at his own door, where his old housekeeper appeared in great perturbation, waiting for him.  “Eh, me, minister! the young gentleman will be worse?” she cried.

“Far from that—­better.  God bless him!” Dr. Moncrieff said.

I think if Simson had begun again to me with his questions, I should have pitched him over the rocks as we returned up the glen; but he was silent, by a good inspiration.  And the sky was clearer than it had been for many nights, shining high over the trees, with here and there a star faintly gleaming through the wilderness of dark and bare branches.  The air, as I have said, was very soft in them, with a subdued and peaceful cadence.  It was real, like every natural sound, and came to us like a hush of peace and relief.  I thought there was a sound in it as of the breath of a sleeper, and it seemed clear to me that Roland must be sleeping, satisfied and calm.  We went up to his room when we went in.  There we found the complete hush of rest.  My wife looked up out of a doze, and gave me a smile:  “I think he is a great deal better; but you are very late,” she said in a whisper, shading the light with her hand that the Doctor might see his patient.  The boy had got back something like his own color.  He woke as we stood all round his bed.  His eyes had the happy, half-awakened look of childhood, glad to shut again, yet pleased with the interruption and glimmer of the light.  I stooped over him and kissed his forehead, which was moist and cool.  “All is well, Roland,” I said.  He looked up at me with a glance of pleasure, and took my hand and laid his cheek upon it, and so went to sleep.

* * * * *

For some nights after, I watched among the ruins, spending all the dark hours up to midnight patrolling about the bit of wall which was associated with so many emotions; but I heard nothing, and saw nothing beyond the quiet course of nature; nor, so far as I am aware, has anything been heard again.  Dr. Moncrieff gave me the history of the youth, whom he never hesitated to name.  I did not ask, as Simson did, how he recognized him.  He had been a prodigal,—­weak, foolish, easily imposed upon, and “led away,” as people say.  All that we had heard had passed actually in life, the Doctor said.  The young man had come home thus a day or two after his mother died,—­who was no more than the housekeeper in the old house,—­and