‘It’s in this way, you know,’ continued Mr. Penrose.  ’If there were no rain in the heavens there would be no springs in the valleys, would there?  The well is filled because the clouds send down their showers; and so it is with love.  Your mother’s heart is full of love because God, who Himself is love, fills it.  Your mother stands to you for God, and she is most like God when she is doing most for you; and when she kissed you and took you back again home, she was only doing what God made her do, and what God did Himself to you through her.’

’But theer’s summat else beside forgiveness, Mr. Penrose.  I feel I’ve lost summat as I con never ged agen.  I know I’ve getten back wom’, but I haven’t getten back what awv’ lost.’

’You may have it back, though, if it’s worth having back.  There was One who came to seek that which was lost.  You are like the woman who lost one of her pieces of silver; but she found it again, and what you have lost Jesus will find and restore to you.’

‘But theer’s th’ past, Mr. Penrose, as well as th’ lost.  It’s all theer afore me.  Aw see it as plain as aw see yon moors through th’ window, only it’s noan green and breet wi’ sunshine—­it’s dark.’

’If God forgets the past, Amanda, why should you recall it?  Look out through that window again.  There’s a cloud just dying away on the horizon yonder.  Do you see it?  It is changing its colour and losing its shape, and in a moment it will be gone.  Watch it!  It is almost gone.  See! now it is gone—­gone where?  Gone into the light of that sun which is making the moors so green and bright.  Now that is what God is doing with your past—­with what you call your sins—­blotting them out like a cloud.  It is God’s mercy that stands like the everlasting hills, and it is our sinfulness and our past that pass away like clouds.  As you look at those hills you must think of His mercy, and as you watch those vanishing clouds you must think of your past.’

Once more there was silence in the sick-chamber, and the little watch ran its race with the beating, flickering pulse of Amanda.  The girl turned her face towards the window that overlooked the moors, and begged her mother to open it so that she might again feel the cool airs that swept across their heathery wastes.

Mrs. Stott at once unhasped the casement, and a tide of life came stealing in, noiselessly lifting the curtains, and cooling the hectic flame that glowed on Amanda’s wasted cheeks, and bearing, too, on its waves fragrances that recalled a long-lost paradise, and sounds—­the echo of days when no discordant note marred the music of her life.  These moorland breezes—­how redolent, how murmurous of what had been!  In a few moments Amanda closed her eyes, the wind caressing her into peacefulness and singing her to slumber.

* * * * *