“It’s no use your preaching at me, Mr Walton.  I cannot, I will not forgive.  I will do anything but forgive.  And it’s no use.”

“It is not I that say it, Catherine.  It is the Lord himself.”

I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I thought it better to add—­

“And I was not preaching at you.  I was preaching to you, as much as to any one there, and no more.”

Of this she took no notice, and I resumed: 

“Just think of what he says; not what I say.”

“I can’t help it.  If He won’t forgive me, I must go without it.  I can’t forgive.”

I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt that no words of mine could be of further avail at the moment.  The words of our Lord had laid hold of her; that was enough for this time.  Nor dared I ask her any questions.  I had the feeling that it would hurt, not help.  All I could venture to say, was: 

“I won’t trouble you with talk, Catherine.  Our Lord wants to talk to you.  It is not for me to interfere.  But please to remember, if ever you think I can serve you in any way, you have only to send for me.”

She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my parcel.  I paid for it, bade her good night, and left the shop.

“O Lord,” I said in my heart, as I walked away, “what a labour Thou hast with us all!  Shall we ever, some day, be all, and quite, good like Thee?  Help me.  Fill me with Thy light, that my work may all go to bring about the gladness of Thy kingdom—­the holy household of us brothers and sisters—­all Thy children.”

And now I found that I wanted very much to see my friend Dr Duncan.  He received me with his stately cordiality, and a smile that went farther than all his words of greeting.

“Come now, Mr Walton, I am just going to sit down to my dinner, and you must join me.  I think there will be enough for us both.  There is, I believe, a chicken a-piece for us, and we can make up with cheese and a glass of—­would you believe it?—­my own father’s port.  He was fond of port—­the old man—­though I never saw him with one glass more aboard than the registered tonnage.  He always sat light on the water.  Ah, dear me!  I’m old myself now.”

“But what am I to do with Mrs Pearson?” I said.  “There’s some chef-d’oeuvre of hers waiting for me by this time.  She always treats me particularly well on Saturdays and Sundays.”

“Ah! then, you must not stop with me.  You will fare better at home.”

“But I should much prefer stopping with you.  Couldn’t you send a message for me?”

“To be sure.  My boy will run with it at once.”

Now, what is the use of writing all this?  I do not know.  Only that even a tete-a-tete dinner with an old friend, now that I am an old man myself, has such a pearly halo about it in the mists of the past, that every little circumstance connected with it becomes interesting, though it may be quite unworthy of record.  So, kind reader, let it stand.