than to any man else, except, perhaps, my father.  Forgive me, for forgiveness’ sake.  You know it takes a long time for a child to know its mother.  It takes everything as a matter of course, till suddenly one day it lifts up its eyes, and knows that a face is looking at it.  I have been like the child towards you; but I am beginning to feel what you have been to me.  I want to be good.  I am very lonely now in great noisy London.  Write to me, if you please, and comfort me.  I wish I were as good as you.  Then everything would go right with me.  Do not suppose that I am in great trouble of any kind.  As yet I am very comfortable, as far as external circumstances go.  But I have a kind of aching inside me.  Something is not right, and I want your help.  You will know what I mean.  What am I to do?  Please to remember me in the kindest, most grateful manner to Mrs. Elginbrod and Margaret.  It is more than I deserve, but I hope they have not forgotten me as I have seemed to forget them.

“I am, my dear Mr. Elginbrod,

“Your old friend,

“Hugh Sutherland.”

I may as well insert here another letter, which arrived at Turriepuffit, likewise addressed to David, some six weeks after the foregoing.  They were both taken to Janet, of course: 

“Sir, —­ I have heard from one who knows you, that you believe —­ really believe in God.  That is why I write to you.  It may seem very strange in me to do so, but how can I help it?  I am a very unhappy woman, for I am in the power of a bad man.  I cannot explain it all to you, and I will not attempt it; for sometimes I almost think I am out of my mind, and that it is all a delusion.  But, alas! delusion or not, it is a dreadful reality to me in all its consequences.  It is of such a nature that no one can help me —­ but God, if there be a God; and if you can make me believe that there is a God, I shall not need to be persuaded that he will help me; for I will besiege him with prayers night and day to set me free.  And even if I am out of my mind, who can help me but him?  Ah! is it not when we are driven to despair, when there is no more help anywhere, that we look around for some power of good that can put right all that is wrong?  Tell me, dear sir, what to do.  Tell me that there certainly is a God; else I shall die raving.  He said you knew about him better than anybody else.

“I am, honoured Sir,

“Your obedient servant,

“Euphrasia Cameron.

“Arnstead, Surrey, &c., &c.”

David’s answer to this letter, would have been something worth having.  But I think it would have been all summed up in one word:  Try and see:  call and listen.

But what could Janet do with such letters?  She did the only thing she could:  she sent them to Margaret.