"An' didna ye hear the minister read frae the buik 'at hoo ilka
guid an' ilka perfit gift was frae abune, an' cam frae the Father
o' lichts?"
"Father o' lichts!" repeated the laird, and looked up at the stars.
"I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I hae nae father. I hae only a ...
I hae only a wuman."
The moment he had said the word, he began to move his head from
side to side like a scared animal seeking where to conceal itself.
"The Father o' lichts is your father an' mine--The Father o' a'
o' 's," said Malcolm.
"O' a' guid fowk, I daursay," said the laird, with a deep and
quivering sigh.
"Mr Graham says--o' a'body," returned Malcolm, "guid an' ill;
--o' the guid to haud them guid an' mak them better--o' the ill
to mak them guid."
"Eh! gien that war true!" said the laird.
They walked on in silence for a minute. All at once the laird threw
up his hands, and fell flat on his face on the sand, his poor hump
rising skywards above his head. Malcolm thought he had been seized
with one of the fits to which he was subject, and knelt down beside
him, to see if he could do anything for him. Then he found he was
praying: he heard him--he could but just hear him--murmuring over
and over, all but inaudibly, "Father o' lichts! Father o' lichts!
Father o' lichts!" It seemed as if no other word dared mingle itself
with that cry. Maniac or not--the mood of the man was supremely
sane, and altogether too sacred to disturb. Malcolm retreated
a little way, sat down in the sand and watched beside him.
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