“I always did, and I never respected you more; it was my foolish pride that made me call you Doctor Saunderson in the study; but my love was the same, and now you will let me stay and wait on you.”

The old man smiled sadly, and laid his hand on his boy’s head.

“I cannot let you . . . go, John, my son.”

“Go and leave you, Rabbi!” Carmichael tried to laugh.  “Not till you are ready to appear at the Presbytery again.  We’ll send Barbara away for a holiday, and Sarah will take her place—­you remember that cream—­and we shall have a royal time, a meal every four hours, Rabbi, and the Fathers in between”; and Carmichael, springing to his feet and turning round to hide his tears, came face to face with Miss Carnegie, who had been unable to escape from the room.

“I happened to call”—­Kate was quite calm—­“and found Doctor Saunderson in bed; so I stayed till some friend should come; you must have met the messenger I sent for you.”

“Yes, a mile from the manse; I was on my way . . .  Janet said . . . but I . . . did not remember anything when I saw the Rabbi.”

“Will you take a little milk again . . .  Rabbi?” and at her bidding and the name he made a brave effort to swallow, but he was plainly sinking.

“No more,” he whispered; “thank you . . . for service . . . to a lonely man; may God bless you . . . both. . . .”  He signed for her hand, which he kept to the end.

[Illustration:  He signed for her hand, which he kept to the end]

“Satisfied . . . read, John . . . the woman from coasts of—­of——­”

“I know, Rabbi,” and kneeling on the other side of the bed, he read the story slowly of a Tyrian woman’s faith.

“It is not meet to take the children’s meat and cast it to dogs.”

“Dogs”—­they heard the Rabbi appropriate his name—­“outside . . . the covenant.”

“And she said, Truth, Lord, yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their master’s table.”

“Lord, I believe . . . help Thou mine . . . unbelief.”

He then fell into an agony of soul, during which Carmichael could hear:  “Though . . .  He slay . . . me . . . yet will I trust . . . trust . . . in Him.”  He drew two or three long breaths and was still.  After a little he was heard again with a new note—­“He that believeth . . . in Him . . . shall not be confounded,” and again, “A bruised reed . . . shall He not . . .”  Then he opened his eyes and raised his head—­but he saw neither Kate nor Carmichael, for the Rabbi had done with earthly friends and earthly trials—­and he, who had walked in darkness and seen no light, said in a clear voice full of joy, “My Lord, and my God.”

It was Kate who closed his eyes and laid the old scholar’s head on the pillow, and then she left the room, casting one swift glance of pity at Carmichael, who was weeping bitterly and crying between the sobs, “Rabbi!  Rabbi!”