. . . It will
be good to think of you all, with the glorious mountains about you, and
Christ's own work in your hands. . . . Ah! how we would like to choose
our work, and the place in which to do it!'
The longing did not appear in the words, but I needed no words to tell
me how deep and how constant it was. And I take some credit to myself,
that in my reply I gave her no bidding to join our band, but rather
praised the work she was doing in her place, telling her how I had heard
of it from Craig.
The summer found me religiously doing Paris and Vienna, gaining a more
perfect acquaintance with the extent and variety of my own ignorance,
and so fully occupied in this interesting and wholesome occupation
that I fell out with all my correspondents, with the result of weeks of
silence between us.
Two letters among the heap waiting on my table in London made my heart
beat quick, but with how different feelings: one from Graeme telling me
that Craig had been very ill, and that he was to take him home as soon
as he could be moved.
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