And yet that morning David Lockerby amazed no one so much as himself.  He went to the meeting quite determined to have his own—­only his own—­but something asked him, “What shall it profit?” and he gave up his lawful increase and even offered help.  He went determined to speak his mind very plainly about mismanagement and the folly of having losses; and something asked him, “What shall it profit?” and he gave such sympathy with his help that the money came with a blessing in its hand.

The feeling of satisfaction was so new to him that it embarrassed and almost made him ashamed.  He slipped ungraciously away from the thanks that ought to have been pleasant, and found himself, almost unconsciously, looking up Willie’s name in the clerical directory, “Dr. William Caird, 22 Moray place.”  David knew enough of Edinburgh to know that Moray place contained the handsomest residences in the city, and therefore he was not astonished at the richness and splendor of Willie’s library; but he was astonished to see him surrounded by five beautiful boys and girls, and evidently as much interested in their lessons and sports as if he was one of them.

“Ech!  Davie man! but I’m glad to see you!” That was all of Willie’s greeting, but his eyes filled, and as the friends held each other’s hands Davie came very near touching for a moment a David Lockerby no one had seen for many long years.  But he said nothing during his visit of Willie’s sermon, nor indeed in several subsequent ones.  Scotsmen are reticent on all matters, and especially reticent about spiritual experience; and though Davie lingered in Edinburgh a week, he was neither able to speak to Willie about his soul, nor yet in all their conversations get rid of that haunting, uncomfortable influence Willie had raised.

But as they stood before the Queen’s Hotel at midnight bidding each other an affectionate farewell, David suddenly turned Willie round and opened up his whole heart to him.  And as he talked he found himself able to define what had been only hitherto a vague, restless sense of want.

“I am the poorest rich man and the most miserable failure, Willie Caird, that ever you asked yon fearsome question of—­and I know it.  I have achieved millions, and I am a conscious bankrupt to my own soul.  I have wasted my youth, neglected my talents and opportunities, and whatever the world may call me I am a wretched breakdown.  I have made money—­plenty of it—­and it does not pay me.  What am I to do?”

“You ken, Davie, my dear, dear lad, what advice the Lord Jesus gave to the rich man—­’distribute unto the poor—­and come, follow me!’”

Then up and down Princes street, and away under the shadow of the Castle Hill, Willie and David walked and talked, till the first sunbeams touched St. Leonard’s Crags.  If it was a long walk a grand work was laid out in it.

“You shall be more blessed than your namesake,” said Willie, “for though David gathered the gold, and the wood, and the stone, Solomon builded therewith.  Now, an’ it please God, you shall do your ain work, and see the topstone brought on with rejoicing.”