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 chapter7.txt
Chapter 7 Single-Dimensional Arrays

Sections 7.2 Array Basics

1. What is the representation of the third element in an array called a?
a. a[2]
b. a(2)
c. a[3]
d. a(3)
Key:a

#
2. If you declare an array double[] list = {3.4, 2.0, 3.5, 5.5}, list[1] is
________.
a. 3.4
b. 2.0
c. 3.5
d. 5.5
e. undefined
Key:b

#
3. Which of the following is incorrect?
a. int[] a = new int[2];
b. int a[] = new int[2];
c. int[] a = new int(2);
d. int a = new int[2];
e. int a() = new int[2];
Key:cde

#
4. If you declare an array double[] list = {3.4, 2.0, 3.5, 5.5}, the highest index
in array list is __________.

a. 0
b. 1
c. 2
d. 3
e. 4
Key:d

#
5. How many elements are in array double[] list = new double[5]?

a. 4
b. 5
c. 6
d. 0
Key:b
Page 1
 chapter7.txt

#
6. What is the correct term for numbers[99]?
a. index
b. index variable
c. indexed variable
d. array variable
e. array
Key:c

#
7. Suppose int i = 5, which of the following can be used as an index for array
double[] t = new double[100]?
a. i
b. (int)(Math.random() * 100))
c. i + 10
d. i + 6.5
e. Math.random() * 100
Key:abc

#
8. Analyze the following code.

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = new int[3];
System.out.println("x[0] is " + x[0]);
}
}
a. The program has a compile error because the size of the array wasn't
specified when declaring the array.
b. The program has a runtime error because the array elements are not
initialized.
c. The program runs fine and displays x[0] is 0.
d. The program has a runtime error because the array element x[0] is not
defined.
Key:c

#
9. Which of the following statements is valid?
a. int i = new int(30);
b. double d[] = new double[30];
c. int[] i = {3, 4, 3, 2};
d. char[] c = new char();
e. char[] c = new char[4]{'a', 'b', 'c', 'd'};
Key:bc e would be corrected if it is char[] c = new char[]{'a', 'b', 'c', 'd'};

#
Page 2
 chapter7.txt
10. How can you initialize an array of two characters to 'a' and 'b'?
a. char[] charArray = new char[2]; charArray = {'a', 'b'};
b. char[2] charArray = {'a', 'b'};
c. char[] charArray = {'a', 'b'};
d. char[] charArray = new char[]{'a', 'b'};
Key:cd

#
11. What would be the result of attempting to compile and run the following
code?

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
double[] x = new double[]{1, 2, 3};
System.out.println("Value is " + x[1]);
}
}
a. The program has a compile error because the syntax new double[]{1, 2, 3} is
wrong and it should be replaced by {1, 2, 3}.
b. The program has a compile error because the syntax new double[]{1, 2, 3} is
wrong and it should be replaced by new double[3]{1, 2, 3};
c. The program has a compile error because the syntax new double[]{1, 2, 3} is
wrong and it should be replaced by new double[]{1.0, 2.0, 3.0};
d. The program compiles and runs fine and the output "Value is 1.0" is printed.

e. The program compiles and runs fine and the output "Value is 2.0" is printed.

Key:e new double[]{1, 2, 3} is correct. This is the syntax I have not covered in
this edition, but will be covered in the future edition. In this question, double[]
x = new double[]{1, 2, 3} is equivalent to double[] x = {1, 2, 3};

#
12. Assume int[] t = {1, 2, 3, 4}. What is t.length?
a. 0
b. 3
c. 4
d. 5
Key:c

#
12. What is the output of the following code?

double[] myList = {1, 5, 5, 5, 5, 1};

double max = myList[0];
int indexOfMax = 0;
for (int i = 1; i < myList.length; i++) {
if (myList[i] > max) {
max = myList[i];
Page 3
 chapter7.txt
indexOfMax = i;
}
}
System.out.println(indexOfMax);
a. 0
b. 1
c. 2
d. 3
e. 4
Key:b

#
13. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = new int[5];
int i;
for (i = 0; i < x.length; i++)
x[i] = i;
System.out.println(x[i]);
}
}
a. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4.
b. The program displays 4.
c. The program has a runtime error because the last statement in the main
method causes ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.
d. The program has a compile error because i is not defined in the last
statement in the main method.
Key:c After the for loop i is 6. x[5] is out of bounds.

#
13. (for-each loop) Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
double[] x = {2.5, 3, 4};
for (double value: x)
System.out.print(value + " ");
}
}
a. The program displays 2.5, 3, 4
b. The program displays 2.5 3 4
c. The program displays 2.5 3.0 4.0
d. The program displays 2.5, 3.0 4.0
e. The program has a syntax error because value is undefined.
Key:c

Page 4
 chapter7.txt
#
12. What is the output of the following code?

int[] myList = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6};

for (int i = myList.length - 2; i >= 0; i--) {

myList[i + 1] = myList[i];
}

for (int e: myList)

System.out.print(e + " ");

a. 1 2 3 4 5 6
b. 6 1 2 3 4 5
c. 6 2 3 4 5 1
d. 1 1 2 3 4 5
e. 2 3 4 5 6 1
Key:d

#
14. (Tricky) What is output of the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = {120, 200, 016};
for (int i = 0; i < x.length; i++)
System.out.print(x[i] + " ");
}
}
a. 120 200 16
b. 120 200 14
c. 120 200 20
d. 016 is a compile error. It should be written as 16.
Key:b 016 is an octal number. The prefix 0 indicates that a number is in octal.

#
14. What is output of the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int list[] = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6};

for (int i = 1; i < list.length; i++)

list[i] = list[i - 1];

for (int i = 0; i < list.length; i++)

System.out.print(list[i] + " ");
}
Page 5
 chapter7.txt
}
a. 1 2 3 4 5 6
b. 2 3 4 5 6 6
c. 2 3 4 5 6 1
d. 1 1 1 1 1 1
Key:d

#
Section 7.5 Copying Arrays
15. In the following code, what is the printout for list2?

class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] list1 = {1, 2, 3};
int[] list2 = {1, 2, 3};
list2 = list1;
list1[0] = 0; list1[1] = 1; list2[2] = 2;

for (int i = 0; i < list2.length; i++)

System.out.print(list2[i] + " ");
}
}
a. 1 2 3
b. 1 1 1
c. 0 1 2
d. 0 1 3
Key:c

#
16. In the following code, what is the printout for list1?

class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] list1 = {1, 2, 3};
int[] list2 = {1, 2, 3};
list2 = list1;
list1[0] = 0; list1[1] = 1; list2[2] = 2;

for (int i = 0; i < list1.length; i++)

System.out.print(list1[i] + " ");
}
}
a. 1 2 3
b. 1 1 1
c. 0 1 2
d. 0 1 3
Key:c

Page 6
 chapter7.txt
#
17. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = {1, 2, 3, 4};
int[] y = x;

x = new int[2];

for (int i = 0; i < y.length; i++)

System.out.print(y[i] + " ");
}
}
a. The program displays 1 2 3 4
b. The program displays 0 0
c. The program displays 0 0 3 4
d. The program displays 0 0 0 0
Key:a

#
18. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = {1, 2, 3, 4};
int[] y = x;

x = new int[2];

for (int i = 0; i < x.length; i++)

System.out.print(x[i] + " ");
}
}
a. The program displays 1 2 3 4
b. The program displays 0 0
c. The program displays 0 0 3 4
d. The program displays 0 0 0 0
Key:b

#
19. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
final int[] x = {1, 2, 3, 4};
int[] y = x;

Page 7
 chapter7.txt
x = new int[2];

for (int i = 0; i < y.length; i++)

System.out.print(y[i] + " ");
}
}
a. The program displays 1 2 3 4
b. The program displays 0 0
c. The program has a compile error on the statement x = new int[2], because x is
final and cannot be changed.
d. The elements in the array x cannot be changed, because x is final.
Key:c The value stored in x is final, but the values in the array are not final.

#
20. Analyze the following code.

int[] list = new int[5];

list = new int[6];
a. The code has compile errors because the variable list cannot be changed once it
is assigned.
b. The code has runtime errors because the variable list cannot be changed once it
is assigned.
c. The code can compile and run fine. The second line assigns a new array to list.
d. The code has compile errors because you cannot assign a different size array to
list.
Key:c

#
21. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] a = new int[4];
a[1] = 1;
a = new int[2];
System.out.println("a[1] is " + a[1]);
}
}
a. The program has a compile error because new int[2] is assigned to a.
b. The program has a runtime error because a[1] is not initialized.
c. The program displays a[1] is 0.
d. The program displays a[1] is 1.
Key:c After executing the statement a = new int[2], a refers to int[2]. The default
value for a[0] and a[1] is 0.

#
22. The __________ method copies the sourceArray to the targetArray.
a. System.copyArrays(sourceArray, 0, targetArray, 0, sourceArray.length);
Page 8
 chapter7.txt
b. System.copyarrays(sourceArray, 0, targetArray, 0, sourceArray.length);
c. System.arrayCopy(sourceArray, 0, targetArray, 0, sourceArray.length);
d. System.arraycopy(sourceArray, 0, targetArray, 0, sourceArray.length);
Key:d

#
Section 7.6 Passing Arrays to Methods
23. When you pass an array to a method, the method receives __________.
a. a copy of the array
b. a copy of the first element
c. the reference of the array
d. the length of the array
Key:c

#
24. Show the output of the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
increase(x);

int[] y = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};

increase(y[0]);

System.out.println(x[0] + " " + y[0]);

}

public static void increase(int[] x) {

for (int i = 0; i < x.length; i++)
x[i]++;
}

public static void increase(int y) {

y++;
}
}
a. 0 0
b. 1 1
c. 2 2
d. 2 1
e. 1 2
Key:d Invoking increase(x) passes the reference of the array to the method. Invoking
increase(y[0]) passes the value 1 to the method. The value y[0] outside the method
is not changed.

#
25. Do the following two programs produce the same result?
Page 9
 chapter7.txt

Program I:
public class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] list = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
reverse(list);
for (int i = 0; i < list.length; i++)
System.out.print(list[i] + " ");
}

public static void reverse(int[] list) {

int[] newList = new int[list.length];

for (int i = 0; i < list.length; i++)

newList[i] = list[list.length - 1 - i];

list = newList;
}
}

Program II:
public class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] oldList = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
reverse(oldList);
for (int i = 0; i < oldList.length; i++)
System.out.print(oldList[i] + " ");
}

public static void reverse(int[] list) {

int[] newList = new int[list.length];

for (int i = 0; i < list.length; i++)

newList[i] = list[list.length - 1 - i];

list = newList;
}
}
a. Yes
b. No
Key:a

#
26. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] oldList = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
Page 10
 chapter7.txt
reverse(oldList);
for (int i = 0; i < oldList.length; i++)
System.out.print(oldList[i] + " ");
}

public static void reverse(int[] list) {

int[] newList = new int[list.length];

for (int i = 0; i < list.length; i++)

newList[i] = list[list.length - 1 - i];

list = newList;
}
}
a. The program displays 1 2 3 4 5.
b. The program displays 1 2 3 4 5 and then raises an
ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.
c. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1.
d. The program displays 5 4 3 2 1 and then raises an
ArrayIndexOutOfBoundsException.
Key:a The contents of the array oldList have not been changed as result of invoking
the reverse method.

#
27. Analyze the following code:

public class Test1 {

public static void main(String[] args) {
xMethod(new double[]{3, 3});
xMethod(new double[5]);
xMethod(new double[3]{1, 2, 3});
}

public static void xMethod(double[] a) {

System.out.println(a.length);
}
}
a. The program has a compile error because xMethod(new double[]{3, 3}) is incorrect.
b. The program has a compile error because xMethod(new double[5]) is incorrect.
c. The program has a compile error because xMethod(new double[3]{1, 2, 3}) is
incorrect.
d. The program has a runtime error because a is null.
Key:c new double[3]{1, 2, 3} should be replaced by new double[]{1, 2, 3}) (anonymous
array).

#
28. The JVM stores the array in an area of memory, called _______, which is used for
dynamic memory allocation where blocks of memory are allocated and freed in an
Page 11
 chapter7.txt
arbitrary order.
a. stack
b. heap
c. memory block
d. dynamic memory
key:b

#
Section 7.7 Returning an Array from a Method
29. When you return an array from a method, the method returns __________.
a. a copy of the array
b. a copy of the first element
c. the reference of the array
d. the length of the array
Key:c

#
30. Suppose a method p has the following heading:

public static int[] p()

What return statement may be used in p()?

a. return 1;
b. return {1, 2, 3};
c. return int[]{1, 2, 3};
d. return new int[]{1, 2, 3};
Key:d

#
31. The reverse method is defined in the textbook. What is list1 after executing the
following statements?

int[] list1 = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6};

list1 = reverse(list1);

a. list1 is 1 2 3 4 5 6
b. list1 is 6 5 4 3 2 1
c. list1 is 0 0 0 0 0 0
d. list1 is 6 6 6 6 6 6
key:b

#
32. The reverse method is defined in this section. What is list1 after executing the
following statements?

int[] list1 = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6};

int[] list2 = reverse(list1);
Page 12
 chapter7.txt

a. list1 is 1 2 3 4 5 6
b. list1 is 6 5 4 3 2 1
c. list1 is 0 0 0 0 0 0
d. list1 is 6 6 6 6 6 6
key:a

#
Section 7.9 Variable-Length Argument Lists
33. Which of the following declarations are correct?

a. public static void print(String... strings, double... numbers)

b. public static void print(double... numbers, String name)
c. public static double... print(double d1, double d2)
d. public static void print(double... numbers)
e. public static void print(int n, double... numbers)
Key:de Only one variable-length parameter may be specified in a method and this
parameter must be the last parameter. The method return type cannot be a
variable-length parameter.

#
34. Which of the following statements are correct to invoke the printMax method in
Listing 7.5 in the textbook?

a. printMax(1, 2, 2, 1, 4);
b. printMax(new double[]{1, 2, 3});
c. printMax(1.0, 2.0, 2.0, 1.0, 4.0);
d. printMax(new int[]{1, 2, 3});
Key:abc The last one printMax(new int[]{1, 2, 3}); is incorrect, because the array
must of the double[] type.

#
Section 7.10 Searching Arrays
35. For the binarySearch method in Section 7.10.2, what is low and high after the
first iteration of the while loop when invoking binarySearch(new int[]{1, 4, 6, 8,
10, 15, 20}, 11)?
a. low is 0 and high is 6
b. low is 0 and high is 3
c. low is 3 and high is 6
d. low is 4 and high is 6
e. low is 0 and high is 5
key:d

#
36. If a key is not in the list, the binarySearch method returns _________.
a. insertion point
b. insertion point - 1
c. -(insertion point + 1)
Page 13
 chapter7.txt
d. -insertion point
key:c

#
Section 7.11 Sorting Arrays
37. Use the selectionSort method presented in this section to answer this question.
Assume list is {3.1, 3.1, 2.5, 6.4, 2.1}, what is the content of list after the
first iteration of the outer loop in the method?

a. 3.1, 3.1, 2.5, 6.4, 2.1

b. 2.5, 3.1, 3.1, 6.4, 2.1
c. 2.1, 2.5, 3.1, 3.1, 6.4
d. 3.1, 3.1, 2.5, 2.1, 6.4
e. 2.1, 3.1, 2.5, 6.4, 3.1
Key:e

#
38. Use the selectionSort method presented in this section to answer this question.
What is list1 after executing the following statements?

double[] list1 = {3.1, 3.1, 2.5, 6.4};

selectionSort(list1);

a. list1 is 3.1, 3.1, 2.5, 6.4

b. list1 is 2.5 3.1, 3.1, 6.4
c. list1 is 6.4, 3.1, 3.1, 2.5
d. list1 is 3.1, 2.5, 3.1, 6.4
Key:b

#
Section 7.12 The Arrays Class
39. The __________ method sorts the array scores of the double[] type.
a. java.util.Arrays(scores)
b. java.util.Arrays.sorts(scores)
c. java.util.Arrays.sort(scores)
d. Njava.util.Arrays.sortArray(scores)
Key:c

#
40. Assume int[] scores = {1, 20, 30, 40, 50}, what value does
java.util.Arrays.binarySearch(scores, 30) return?
a. 0
b. -1
c. 1
d. 2
e. -2
Key:d

Page 14
 chapter7.txt
#
41. Assume int[] scores = {1, 20, 30, 40, 50}, what value does
java.util.Arrays.binarySearch(scores, 3) return?
a. 0
b. -1
c. 1
d. 2
e. -2
Key:e The binarySearch method returns the index of the search key if it is contained
in the list. Otherwise, it returns –insertion point - 1. The insertion point is the
point at which the key would be inserted into the list. In this case the insertion
point is 1. Note that the array index starts from 0.

#
41. Assume int[] scores = {1, 20, 30, 40, 50}, what is the output of
System.out.println(java.util.Arrays.toString(scores))?
a. {1, 20, 30, 40, 50}
b. [1, 20, 30, 40, 50]
c. {1 20 30 40 50}
d. [1 20 30 40 50]
Key:b

#
Section 7.13 Command-Line Arguments
40. How can you get the word "abc" in the main method from the following call?

java Test "+" 3 "abc" 2

a. args[0]
b. args[1]
c. args[2]
d. args[3]
Key:c

#
41. Given the following program:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
for (int i = 0; i < args.length; i++) {
System.out.print(args[i] + " ");
}
}
}

What is the output, if you run the program using

java Test 1 2 3

Page 15
 chapter7.txt
a. 3
b. 1
c. 1 2 3
d. 1 2
Key:c

#
42. Which code fragment would correctly identify the number of arguments passed
via the command line to a Java application, excluding the name of the class that is
being invoked?
a. int count = args.length;
b. int count = args.length - 1;
c. int count = 0; while (args[count] != null) count ++;
d. int count=0; while (!(args[count].equals(""))) count ++;
Key:a

#
43. Which correctly creates an array of five empty Strings?
a. String[] a = new String [5];
b. String[] a = {"", "", "", "", ""};
c. String[5] a;
d. String[ ] a = new String [5]; for (int i = 0; i &lt; 5; a[i++] = null);
Key:b

#
44. Identify the problems in the following code.

public class Test {

public static void main(String argv[]) {
System.out.println("argv.length is " + argv.length);
}
}
a. The program has a compile error because String argv[] is wrong and it should be
replaced by String[] args.
b. The program has a compile error because String args[] is wrong and it should be
replaced by String args[].
c. If you run this program without passing any arguments, the program would have a
runtime error because argv is null.
d. If you run this program without passing any arguments, the program would display
argv.length is 0.
Key:d The parameter for the main method is an array of String. The declaration
String argv[] is correct. When you run the program without passing arguments, argv
is new String[0]. Thus, argv.length is 0. See the NOTE box in the section, "Passing
Arguments to Java Programs."

#
45. Which of the following is the correct header of the main method?
a. public static void main(String[] args)
Page 16
 chapter7.txt
b. public static void main(String args[])
c. public static void main(String[] x)
d. public static void main(String x[])
e. static void main(String[] args)
Key:abcd e is incorrect because the main method must be public.

#
1. The element in the array must be of a primitive data type.
a. true
b. false
Key:b It can be an object type such as String.

#
2. The name length is a method in an array.
a. true
b. false
Key:b

#
3. x.length does not exist if x is null.
a. true
b. false
Key:a x.length would cause a run time exception in this case.

#
4. The array index is not limited to int type.
a. true
b. false
Key:b The array index is int type, starting from 0 for the first element.

#
5. The array index of the first element in an array is 0.
a. true
b. false
Key:a

#
6. The array size is specified when the array is declared.
a. true
b. false
Key:b

#
7. An array variable can be declared and redeclared in the same block.
a. true
b. false
Key:b A variable can be declared once in the same block.

Page 17
 chapter7.txt
#
8. Binary search can be applied on an unsorted list.
a. true
b. false
Key:b

#
9. You can use the operator == to check whether two variables refer to the same
array.
a. true
b. false
Key:a

#
10. The arraycopy method does not allocate memory space for the target array.
The target array must already be created with memory space allocated.
a. true
b. false
Key:a

#
11. Suppose array a is int[] a = {1, 2, 3}, what is a[0] - a[2]?

a. 1
b. 2
c. 3
d. -1
e. -2
Key:e

#
12. An array can be used in which of the following ways?

a. As a local variable
b. As a parameter of a method
c. As a return value of a method
d. All of the above
Key:d

#
13. Which of the following are valid array declarations?

a. char[] charArray = new char[26];

b. int[] words = new words[10];
c. char[] charArray = "Computer Science";
d. double[3] nums = {3.5, 35.1, 32.0};
Key:a

Page 18
 chapter7.txt
#
14. Consider the following code fragment:

int[] list = new int[10];

for (int i = 0; i <= list.length; i++) {
list[i] = (int)(Math.random() * 10);
}

Which of the following statements is true?

a. list.length must be replaced by 10

b. The loop body will execute 10 times, filling up the array with random numbers.
c. The loop body will execute 10 times, filling up the array with zeros.
d. The code has a runtime error indicating that the array is out of bound.
Key:d

#
15. Assume the signature of the method xMethod is as follows.

public static void xMethod(double[] a)

Which of the following could be used to invoke xMethod?

a. xMethod(5);
b. xMethod({3, 4});
c. xMethod(new int[2]);
d. xMethod(new double[2]);
Key:d

#
16. Given the following statement
int[] list = new int[10];
list.length has the value _______.
a. 10
b. 9
c. The value depends on how many integers are stored in list.
d. 11
Key:a

#
17. Given the following statement
int[] list = new int[10];

a. The array variable list contains a memory address that refers to an array of 10
int values.
b. The array variable list contains a memory address that refers to an array of 9
int values.
c. The array variable list contains ten values of type int.
Page 19
 chapter7.txt
d. The array variable list contains nine values of type int.
Key:a

#
18. In the following code, what is the printout for list2?

class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] list1 = {3, 2, 1};
int[] list2 = {1, 2, 3};
list2 = list1;
list1[0] = 0; list1[1] = 1; list2[2] = 2;

for (int i = list2.length - 1; i >= 0; i--)

System.out.print(list2[i] + " ");
}
}

a. 1 2 3
b. 3 2 1
c. 0 1 2
d. 2 1 0
e. 0 1 3.
Key:d

#
19. Analyze the following code:

public class Test {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = {0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5};
xMethod(x, 5);
}

public static void xMethod(int[] x, int length) {

for (int i = 0; i < length; i++)
System.out.print(" " + x[i]);
}
}
a. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4.
b. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4 and then raises a runtime exception.
c. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4 5.
d. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4 5 and then raises a runtime exception.
Key:a

#
20. Analyze the following code:

Page 20
 chapter7.txt
public class Test {
public static void main(String[] args) {
int[] x = new int[5];
for (int i = 0; i < x.length; i++)
x[i] = i;
System.out.println(x[i]);
}
}

a. The program displays 0 1 2 3 4.

b. The program displays 4.
c. The program has a runtime error because the last statement in the main
method causes ArrayIndexOutOfBounds exception.
d. The program has a syntax error because i is not defined in the last
statement in the main method.
Key:d

#
21. Assume double[] scores = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5}, what value does
java.util.Arrays.binarySearch(scores, 3.5) return?
a. 0
b. -4
c. 3
d. -3
e. 4
Key:b

#
22. _______ declares an array of char.
a. char[] chars
b. char[] char
c. char chars[]
d. char char[]
Key:ac b and d are wrong, because char is a reserved word.

#
23. Suppose int[] numbers = new int[10], what is numbers[0]?

a. undefined.
b. 10.
c. 0
d. null
Key:c

#
24. Which of the following declarations are correct?
a. int[] list = {1, 2, 3, 4};
b. int[] list = new int{1, 2, 3, 4};
Page 21
 chapter7.txt
c. int[] list = new int[]{1, 2, 3, 4};
d. int[4] list = new int{1, 2, 3, 4};
Key:ac

#
25. What is the output of the following code?

double[] myList = {1, 5, 5, 5, 5, 1};

double max = myList[0];
int indexOfMax = 0;
for (int i = 1; i < myList.length; i++) {
if (myList[i] >= max) {
max = myList[i];
indexOfMax = i;
}
}
System.out.println(indexOfMax);
a. 0
b. 1
c. 2
d. 3
e. 4
Key:e

#
26. What is the output of the following code?

int[] myList = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6};

for (int i = 1; i < myList.length; i++) {
myList[i - 1] = myList[i];
}

for (int e: myList)

System.out.print(e + " ");

a. 1 2 3 4 5 6
b. 6 1 2 3 4 5
c. 6 2 3 4 5 1
d. 2 3 4 5 6 6
e. 2 3 4 5 6 1
Key:d

#
16. Which of the following is correct to create an array?

a. int[] m = {1, 2, };
b. int[] m = {{1, 2}};
c. int[] m = {{1, 2}, {3, 4}};
Page 22
 chapter7.txt
d. int[] m = {1, 2, 3};
Key:d

#
11. The arguments passed to the main method is an array of strings. If no argument
is passed, args.length is 0.
a. true
b. false
Key:a

Page 23
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
in fact rattled on as if life were to be a perpetual feast, without any
such thing as duty, or trial, or suffering. In all these frolics I mingled.
The jolly fellows, though they knew my origin, and called me by no
other name than 'Balls,' were free and easy with me, played practical
jokes upon me, borrowed my money, smoked my cigars, drank my
wine, and even used my rooms for their parties.
"But all things come to an end; and the time arrived when the most
of these devotees of pleasure had to lay aside their frivolities, and, in
order to please the old folks at home, had to go in for their degree,
or, as they called it, 'their smalls.' Many of them were, as it is called,
'plucked,' and no wonder! Their feathers were not home-grown, but
were borrowed plumes stuck on with infinite labour and skill by
tutors, and, therefore, came off easily. On me they would not even
stick, and so I could not go up for the degree, and had not even the
honour of being plucked.
"My poor parents were spared the chagrin of seeing the failure of
their efforts to make me a gentleman. Before my Oxford career was
finished, they died, both in the same week, the victims of the terrible
Asiatic cholera, during its first visit to this country in 1832. As I now
came into a considerable fortune, I saw no necessity for adopting a
profession, or doing any useful work. To enjoy myself was, I
thought, to be my only business; and the proper place for enjoyment
was London, the centre of all that is pleasant and grand. So, as soon
as I had wound up affairs in Edinburgh, I hastened to the
metropolis.
"I put up at the Golden Cross, and proceeded, as it is called, 'to do
the sights of London.' I visited picture galleries, museums, theatres,
concert rooms, until I was tired out and disgusted. Then came on
the most terrible feeling I ever experienced, a feeling which you
busy and healthy people never had. I did not know what to do. I did
not care to stroll about the streets, for the everlasting din and
endless throng grew intolerable. I could not sit all day in the coffee-
room of the hotel, staring at everyone that entered, and pretending
to read the newspaper. When I got up in the morning, it seemed as
if I would never manage to get through the day. Time was my great
enemy. It loaded the present, and blocked up the future. How was I
to kill it? To do this I would have been inclined to try almost
anything. I now understood how men committed suicide through
sheer weariness. I also felt the truth of the saying that idleness is
the cause of nearly every crime, and that the idle man does not wait
to be tempted, but of his own accord tempts the devil. My devil soon
appeared.
"I had noticed among the inmates of the hotel a middle-aged, stout,
and grey-headed gentleman, whom the waiters addressed as
Colonel. He seemed to me to be round and oily with health, good
nature, and jollity. One day, when he appeared to be idle, he sat
down and had a talk with me. Without telling me much about
himself, except that he been an officer in the Spanish service, he
managed to extract from me a good deal about myself; and when he
heard me complain about feeling dull, he at once placed his services
at my disposal.
"'London dull!' he said, 'why, it's a paradise, a garden full of flowers,
and I, like a bee, or rather a bumble-bee, have visited all of them.'
"And certainly no idle man could have a pleasanter companion than
the Colonel. He was stimulating and enlivening, like the morning
sunshine. His animal spirits and relish for life never flagged, and he
was always ready, when the occasion turned up, to joke, to laugh, to
eat, or to drink. Every day he had some novelty to offer. 'Now,' he
would say, 'I'll give you a treat that you never had before;' and then
he would drive me to a racecourse or some other resort of fashion,
or he would take me to some famous old chop-house in the recesses
of the city, or some new and gorgeous hotel in one of the
fashionable thoroughfares; and, while we sat down to what he
called, 'a nice little dinner,' he would introduce some new dish, or
some new blend of whisky, or some new brand of wine; and while
we discussed it he would smack his lips, rub his hands, and look at
me as much as to say, 'Did I not tell you so?' His enjoyment of the
pleasures of the great city never seemed to fail. The only thing, in
fact, that ever failed with him was money. He sometimes had no
change, or had forgotten his purse; but I was only too glad to pay
his expenses in return for his company. I could not do without him.
He had made life like a dream, a little feverish perhaps, but
exceedingly pleasant.
"One night after the theatre, he took me to a house in the
Haymarket, where, he said, we could sup cosily together. As soon as
we had entered, to his great surprise, he found two old friends who
had just arrived from the Continent. They were middle-aged,
fashionably dressed, and well-mannered, and were introduced to me
as Captain Spurr and Count Lago. At my invitation they joined us in
a private room, where we supped on lobster and champagne, and all
grew as sociable and as pleasant as you like. A game of whist was
proposed, and the Colonel and I played against the other two for
small stakes. We had astonishing luck, and won game after game;
and at the end of several hours, rose the winners of a considerable
sum of money. Of course, we continued the practice of meeting and
playing there, and night after night the same results happened. The
Colonel and I always won. Such a thing had never been known
before. They all attributed it to me; and even the landlord and the
waiters complimented me, and wondered that I did not back my luck
sufficiently. This was pleasant so far; but I did not like the idea of
winning so much money, and feared that we might completely clean
out our opponents, and I frankly told the Colonel my feelings on the
matter, and suggested that we should stop.
"'Stop!' he exclaimed, 'we can't stop; we must give them their
revenge. Oh, don't be afraid that you'll beggar them; they have
plenty of the needful.'
"So on we drove in our career of victory, until our winnings
amounted to a large sum. Then fortune changed, and, strange to
say, went on as steadily against us as it had done for us, until our
opponents had not only regained all they had lost, but had won
some of our money.
"While on our way home that night I said to the Colonel—'As our
opponents have recouped themselves, we must now stop.'
"'Hang it!' said the Colonel, 'not just yet if you please. I can't afford
to lose any money if you can. Let us adopt this method. We are so
much money out of pocket. On our first game to-night, let us stake
the double of that. If we lose, let us double it again; and let us go
on doing this; and whenever the luck turns, and, hang it! you know,
it must turn very soon, we shall, at one go, have won all our money
back, and then we can cry quits.'
"This seemed a dangerous plan, but I felt that we must follow it. So
on we went, night after night losing our games, and always piling up
the money, till the stake had become something tremendous, and I
became almost mad with excitement. To provide funds, I kept selling
out my investments and lodging the money in a London bank; and
to keep up my nerve I drank champagne incessantly—and then the
crash came!
"I woke up one day with a head a mass of pain, a mouth as dry as a
lime-kiln, and a confused memory of exciting scenes, to find myself
in a bed in our nightly resort. On summoning the waiter, I learnt
from him that I had been very tipsy, and that the Colonel and his
friends had had some difficulty in managing me, and getting me to
bed. I lost no time in going to the Golden Cross Hotel to see the
Colonel, but to my horror I was told that the Colonel had left that
morning with all his luggage. I understood now the hellish plot
which had been devised for my ruin; but I thanked God that I had
still ten thousand pounds in the bank. I hurried to the bank to make
sure; but there I was met with the intelligence that a gentleman,
that morning, had presented my cheque for the whole amount, and
that all my money had been paid to him. I asked to see the cheque,
thinking that it must have been forged; but no, there was my
undoubted signature! I had been drugged, and while in a stupor
made to sign my name; and my whole fortune was gone. The
Colonel, who, it seems, was notorious as a most accomplished
blackleg, was advertised for, but was never caught.
"I had now to give up my rooms in the hotel, and all my refined
habits, take lodgings in a street near Drury Lane, and seek for some
way of earning my bread. Surely, I thought, I can't starve: in this
immense community there must be many thousands of vacant
situations. But I did not take into account, that for every single
vacancy there must be at least ten applicants. And I very soon found
that the education which I had got at school and at the university,
and which had cost so much, was practically useless. In fact, it was
now the great stumbling-block in my way. It had not fitted me for
the higher situations, for I could not even spell correctly; and it had
unfitted me for the lower situations, for no one would engage an
Oxford scholar for a menial office. I could not even compete with the
ragged street boys in running on an errand, holding a horse, or
sweeping a crossing. Their education, picked up amid the mud and
jostle of the streets, had been far more practical and effective than
mine. Instead, therefore, of living by my labour, I was obliged to
subsist by pawning my valuables, and bit after bit of my finery, like
the plumes of a moulting peacock, dropped from me, till I was left
almost bare. Then I was obliged to give up my lodgings, and go out
on the streets.
"I was now an outcast in London. It seemed strange that in the
midst of so many thousand houses, I should be without a corner to
lay my head in,—that in the midst of millions of people I should not
have a single one to help me, or take an interest in me. Such was
my condition on a night of August last. I had a few shillings in my
pocket, but as I did not see any way by which I could earn money, it
was necessary to be rigidly economical. I applied for a night's shelter
at a cheap lodging-house in the Borough, but it was so crowded with
shabby, dirty, and noisy lodgers that I turned sick, and was obliged
to leave. I then tried the casual ward in one of the infirmaries, but it
was even more disgusting. Quite at a loss to know what to do, I
wandered aimlessly up and down till I found myself on London
Bridge, when the steeples were pealing out the hour of midnight.
Footsore and weary, I threw myself down on the hard stone seat in
one of the recesses; but shortly, a poor, slouching tatterdemalion
squatted down beside me, actually laying his unkempt head upon
my legs. In disgust, I started up, and crawled away into the city.
Hour after hour I dragged my weary limbs along the solitary,
interminable streets, looking for some covered doorway where I
might lay me down and sleep. Twice I had found a suitable spot; but
before I could take possession of it, a policeman's lantern was seen
approaching, and I was obliged to move on. When morning began to
break I found myself close to Regent's Park, and the soft green
sward appeared a temptation which I could not resist. Climbing the
fence with some difficulty, I made for a large beech tree, and
pillowing my head on one of its extended roots, and stretching out
my legs on the soft delightful grass, I fell at once into a deep
slumber.
"After several hours of absolute unconsciousness, I had a dream,
and thought I was back again in Scotland, in our garden at Eskbank,
and heard somebody calling to me. I gradually came to myself, and
opened my eyes; and there was a working-man standing over me,
and, in an accent unmistakably Scotch, calling me by name, and
asking why I was there. I cannot describe the gush of delight that
ran through me when I heard the kindly tones of my native land,
and realised that here at least was a man who took an interest in
me. Raising myself up, I asked him how he came to know me? He
told me that he belonged to Eskbank, that he used to know me by
sight, that he was on his way to his work in Regent Park Gardens,
and that he was astonished to see me lying like an outcast there.
What could I do but tell him my sad story? He said that it might be a
long time before I could get any suitable berth in London, and that
my best plan would be to go home at once, and that he would lend
me five shillings—all that he had on him—to help me on my way. My
heart bounded with delight at the suggestion, and I wondered that I
had never thought of it before. So, taking his offered loan, and along
with it his address, and promising to repay him as soon as I was
able, I shook hands with my humble friend, and set off at once to
prepare for my journey. Not having enough money to pay the fare
either by coach or boat, I resolved to go on foot, and hoped that by
taking every precaution, I would not find it too much for me, and
that I might be able to get some odd jobs by the road, which would
assist my expenses. So I packed up all my effects in a napkin, and
bravely set my face to the north.
"When, from the top of Highgate, I had taken my last look of the
smoky wilderness called London, and when I turned to go forward
through the rich autumn landscape, I felt really happy. After my
bitter experience of the endless rows of brick houses, and the
everlasting stone pavement, I enjoyed the long lines of leafy trees
and hedges, and the soft, fragrant wayside grass. The very thought
that every step was taking me nearer home was a delight in itself.
That the distance was four hundred miles did not seem to matter
much. Our school's sports, especially that of hounds and hare, had
taught me to hold in, and not expend all my resources at once. So I
moved along at a steady, regular pace, taking care not to strain my
muscles. When my feet grew hot, I refreshed them by walking into a
brook. When faintness came on, I did not seek the ale-house; but I
bought a penny loaf, and sitting down by a wayside well, found that
plain bread and water were both palatable and invigorating. For
dessert, I sometimes had a young Swedish turnip, which I found
more sweet and juicy than any pine-apple I ever tasted. At night, as
the weather continued remarkably dry and warm, I preferred the
open air to the tramp's lodging-house; and under the newly-cut corn
sheaves, or in the recess of a haystack, I slept soundly till I was
wakened by the rising sun.
"With all my economy, however, my little stock of money melted fast
away; and I soon saw that if I wished to be saved from the
degradation of begging I must earn something. I therefore hit upon
a plan which I thought would be sure to get me some employment.
This was to call upon the clergymen through whose parishes I
passed, to tell them frankly the cause of my degradation, and to ask
them in the name of Christian charity to allow me to do some work
for them, by which I could earn a meal or a small sum of money.
But, unfortunately, this patent plan of mine failed. Without
exception, the parish priests listened to my story with an incredulous
look, shook their heads, and shut their doors in my face. At length I
ventured to ask one why he disbelieved me?
"'My good man,' he said, 'I can't help it. I have been so often taken
in by people like you. The more plausible your story is, the more
likely it is to be false.'
"'You look upon poverty, then,' said I, 'as a crime?'
"'No,' he replied, 'not exactly, but as one of the marks of a criminal. I
may be wrong, but I can't help it.'
"I saw, too, that my fellow-tramps had the same opinion about me.
One evening, at a sudden turn of the road, I found myself face to
face with one of a most villainous type. There was no mistaking him.
He was a real London-made rough, spawned in the gutter, bred in
the slums, moulded in the jostle of the streets, with plunder in his
look and blasphemy on his tongue.
"Planting himself right before me, and devouring me with his rat-like
eyes, he croaked out, 'Well, my bloomin' cove! what lay are you on?'
"I told him that I was a gentleman who had been unfortunate in
London, and was now on my way back to my native country.
"'Oh! a gent are you?' he said, with a sneer; 'then, by ——, fork out
like a gent;' and he seized me by the coat collar.
"And now, for the first time, I found I had been taught at school
something that was useful. Throwing off his hand, I leapt back, and
put myself in a boxing attitude; and, as he made a furious assault
upon me, I parried his blows, and letting go my left straight from the
shoulder, landed on his jaw a crashing blow which sent him to the
grass; and there he lay half-stunned, and looking like a heap of filthy
clothes. I asked him if he would have any more, and getting nothing
but a terrible imprecation in reply, I left him, and went on my way.
"By this time I had passed Newark, and I was in a sorry plight. I was
without shoes and without a waistcoat, and my hat was crushed and
battered out of all shape. With bleeding feet and empty stomach, I
was limping along painfully, when I came to a farmer superintending
his reapers near the roadside. Touching my forehead, I asked him if
he could not give a starving man a job by which he could earn a bite
of bread.
"'No lad,' he said, 'but if ye had coomed when the taters were young
I could have given you a job. I might have employed you as a
scarecrow.'
"Thereupon all the workers laughed, especially the women, who sent
up a loud skirl of delight. So I had to crawl on, foot-sore, and also
heart-sore at the cruelty of my fellow-creatures.
"But relief was at hand. I had not gone far, when, turning a corner of
the road, I came upon a strange sight: a fat little man, with a red
coat, and a red face, both discoloured by the weather, sitting at the
edge of a wood, eating his dinner, with his little dog in front of him,
and his properties—a Punch and Judy show, a big drum, and
Pandean pipes—indistinctly seen in the foliage behind him. He was
eating bread and cheese, which he cut with a clasp-knife, and Toby
was eyeing him greedily, ready to snap his occasional bit. Everything
about the man was so hearty, and so suggestive of sunshine and
country roads, that he seemed to warm up the landscape.
"As soon as he caught sight of me he called out, 'Hallo, mate! you
seem done up. Come and peck a bit. Sit down.' And he handed me a
big hunk of bread and another of cheese, looking on beamingly
when I devoured it; and when at length I could eat no more, he
produced a flask.
"'Here is some of the right sort; take a good swig of it; it will oil your
digestion works. Man! it does me good to see you enjoy your grub. I
feel as if I were eating a second dinner. Now for your yarn.' Then he
lit his pipe and smoked while I gave an account of myself.
"'Ah,' he said, knocking out the ashes, 'my case is not altogether
unlike yours. I, too, got a good education, or what was intended to
be a good education. But I could never settle in any place. By nature
I was a rolling stone, or rather a rolling ball of fat; and Fortune,
mistaking me for a football, began to kick me about, and has been
playing with me ever since. But thanks to my fat, I always fall soft
and always rebound. Ha! ha!' and he laughed till his face puckered
up and showed his eyes like two small steel beads.
"While he was talking, I had taken up the Pandean pipes, and I now
played a tune on them.
"'Ah!' he said, 'can you work that?'
"'Yes,' I replied; 'when I was a boy in Edinburgh, there was nothing I
so much delighted in as a Punch and Judy performance. I used to
loiter for hours at the foot of the Mound, and see it repeated again
and again; and coming upon a set of Pandean pipes in my father's
pawnshop, I used to practise upon them.'
"'Why,' said Joe Greener (for, as I learnt afterwards, this was his
name), 'you're the very man I want. Aint it lucky? To tell you the
truth, I'm in a bit of a fix. My pal bolted two days ago with all the
swag. A good riddance at the price.' (And here Joe abandoned
himself to his peculiar snigger. He seemed to laugh all his trouble
away, and blow it off as if with a gust of merriment.)
"'I have written,' he continued, 'for an old partner in London, but he
can't come for some weeks. Meanwhile you'll do for a substitute. I'll
soon coach you up in the business. All that you have got to do is to
play the overture before the drama begins, and while it is going on
to collect the money and keep the imps of children from pulling
aside the baize and peeping in. The terms are six bob a week and
your grub; and I'll advance something at once to rig you out.'
"The bargain was struck; and that evening, in the inn yard of the
neighbouring village, we had several rehearsals, and I felt that I
would manage to get through my part fairly well.
"Behold me now, an Oxford man, and formerly the chum of lords
and swells, degraded into a Punch and Judy assistant. It was a
bustling life. We were out in the road in all weathers, performing at
fairs, and in the evenings in small towns and villages. In fact,
wherever we saw groups of people hanging about on the outlook for
amusement, we set up our stage. Once we were hired to amuse the
boys at my old school, Vere de Vere College. I cannot describe the
feelings with which, in my new character, I entered the well-known
scenes. My uppermost feeling was the fear lest I should be identified
as a former scholar. But, to my infinite relief, I saw that all the pupils
and the servants were strangers. The doctor, indeed, stared at me
for a moment as if he recognised me; but he turned away, muttering
'No, no, impossible!' He could not believe that anyone who had had
the unspeakable advantage of being taught by him could possibly
have fallen so low. His conceit saved me.
"This vagrant life had its drudgery and its difficulties; but there were
certain things about it that I liked very much: the quiet country
roads, the resting on the green grass under hawthorn hedges, the
palatable dinners of bread and cheese and cider at rustic inns, and
the merry faces that clustered round us when that abandoned rascal
Punch began to play his pranks. But, at the end of a few weeks, Joe
Greener's former pal arrived from London, and my occupation was
gone. So, bidding a hearty farewell to my merry benefactor, I turned
my face northwards again, and partly by walking and partly by
coaching, I have come thus far.
"When I arrived at your gate to-night, and listened to the well-
remembered sound of the wind in the big plane tree, the past came
back upon me, and I felt as if I were a boy again, and as if my
strange experiences at Oxford and London were but the medley of a
dream."
"Bless me," cried Miss Grizzie, "did you ever live here?" and she and
her sister were on their feet scrutinising the face of the stranger.
"Yes," he said quietly; "I once lived in this very house, and I can give
you a proof of it. Look at the back of the fireplace there, on the left-
hand side, and you will see the letters B.L. cut in a stone." They all
crowded round the fire to look; and, surely enough, they detected
the initials, badly formed and rather indistinct, but still recognisable.
Then Miss Lizzie, turning round and looking intently at the stranger,
called out, "Are you Ben Levy? Eh! I thocht that there was
something about yer face that I should ken. Ah! I mind ye weel—a
bit laddie, comin' ower here in yer vakens, and introducin' yersel as
oor coosin, and steyin' for three or four weeks."
"But yer faither," said Miss Grizzie, "was a gentleman, I thocht. I
never heard o' him bein' a pawnbroker."
"No," said Ben, "he had retired by that time from the three balls, and
wished them to be forgotten."
Hillend, now putting his hand on the shoulder of the stranger, said,
"Oh man! is this you? Man, I'm fain to see ye. I mind ye weel—an
auld-farrant loon, dour at the readin', writin', and coontin', but ready
with yer haunds, and in the thick of everything—howin', shearin',
and threshin',—and wi' an awfu' wark wi' bease. An' have ye really
been through a' thae ups and doons: and what are ye gaun to dae
noo?"
"Well," said Ben, "that's just what I want to tell you. You see I have
had my chances—all the advantages which a man could have—
education, society, money. I could not use them, and they nearly did
for me. They have been a curse to me. I don't want them again. It is
evident that my proper sphere is a humble lot in the country. I shall
be content if anybody allows me to work in the fields, and gives me
in return bed and board and a suit of clothes once a year. A man
who has frequently supped on a turnip and slept under a hedge, will
look upon a cog of oatmeal porridge and a bunch of straw in the
barn as real luxuries."
Hillend's eyes glistened. "Well," he thought, "here's something new
at a farmer's fireside, a man that has gaen up and doon the hale
ladder o' Fortune, and kens a' the changes o' Life. What a
companion he will be for the long winter nichts! A' the tales o' the
Borders in one livin' edition! A well that can always be pumped, and
will never gang dry! I think we must ask him to stey for a week or
twa at least."
He gave a significant glance at his sisters, and they returned it. Then
he said—"Ye micht stey on here for a wee till ye can look aroond ye.
It happens that Jamie Doo, oor orra man, has just left. Ye can tak
his place, and pit oot your haund to ony job that's wanted; and ye'se
get a bed in the bothy, and your share o' the parritch and kail that's
gaun in the kitchen."
Weeks, months, and even years passed, and Ben Levy still remained
at the farm. The truth is that they could not do without him. He was
the factotum of Hillend, and also of the two sisters. During the day,
if any stress of work arose, he was the man to push it through; and
in the evening, if any visitors dropt in, he was the man to entertain
them with his startling experiences.
One remark he always made at the end of his story. "It's strange
that a few weeks experience of country labour in my boyhood should
have been more useful to me than all my school and university
education. It has enabled me to earn my bread. I believe it's
because my heart was in it.
"'The heart's aye the part aye
That maks us richt or wrang.'"

THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE.

In my boyhood I was familiar with a thin emaciated man, that used
to be seen in the streets of Sandyriggs. Consumption had wasted his
body, and utterly quenched his spirit. Wan and dumb, he moved
among the healthy faces of the town folk like a ghost; and it was a
painful sight to see him crawl up the outside stair that led to his
solitary room above the butcher's shop. People called him "a
blighted being" and "a living wreck," and associated his name with a
tragedy which had long been the talk of the county. Yet, twenty
years before, he began his career under the most favourable
auspices.
When Malcolm Blair entered the University of St Andrews, he might
have been considered a favourite of Fortune. He was the only son
and the pride of his father, a prosperous farmer. His body was
healthy and handsome, and his mind agile and enthusiastic. He had
a keen relish, not only for material blessings, but for knowledge of
every kind. It was as pleasant to him to study as to take a bracing
morning walk. Without any difficulty he drank in classics,
mathematics, literature, and science. In all the college competitions
he easily took the first place, and at the end of every session came
out the first man of his year.
At the same time, his learning did not make him moody and
unsocial. He put it (to use a homely phrase) "into a good skin." It
was thoroughly digested, became part of his being, promoted his
general health, and fed his buoyant spirits. When the time came for
tossing aside his books, mirth danced in his eyes and rioted in his
laugh. His motto seemed to be "Taste life's glad moments." At all the
students' recreations—the social gatherings on the Friday night, the
Saturday excursions into the country, the jolly junketings at
Guardbridge and at Leuchars—he was the life of the company. He
could sing, recite, tell stories, make a speech or "screamer," as it
was called, and give the most ludicrous imitation of the different
professors.
"Blair," said one of his friends, "is irrepressible. How does he keep up
that vivid tone, both of body and mind? One would imagine that his
food was ambrosia and his drink was nectar; and the air which he
breathed was laughing-gas."
Altogether Blair was a youth full of promise, and apparently destined
for a popular and successful career.
But it was this highly-strung excitable temperament that brought him
into danger. The time came, towards the end of his Arts curriculum
at St Andrews, when "the young man's fancy lightly turned to
thoughts of love." If he had been privileged to mix in cultured family
life, his fancy might have settled on a suitable object. But in St
Andrews, where the distinctions of caste are strongly defined, the
students are unfortunately placed. They are regarded as being
beneath the upper or professional class; and they consider
themselves as above the under or trading class. They are, therefore,
shut out from family life, and are left to herd together in their
lodgings. And thus it came to pass that Malcolm Blair's fancy was
unable to find a resting-place till it settled on his landlady's daughter.
Grace Bourhill, daughter of Mrs Bourhill, lodging-house keeper in
College Street, had no special charms beyond a fresh complexion
and a pair of bright eyes. But she was ambitious, and tried all her
little fascinations on Mr Blair. When she brought in his meals, she
was always tidy as Hebe herself or neat-handed Phyllis. When he
spoke to her, she would blush and smile and look at him from the
corner of her eyes. When she ran against him in the lobby, she
would show the prettiest confusion, and after begging pardon, would
trip away like a startled fawn. As a matter of course, he soon saw
that the girl was fond of him, and could not help appreciating her
good feeling and taste. He found a pleasure in looking upon her and
speaking to her, and when he was singing Burns's songs, he would
often call up her image to help him to realise the poet's heroines.
Yet all the while he never once thought of her as a suitable partner
for him. He considered the whole affair as an innocent flirtation.
Miserable delusion! He soon found out his mistake.
Blair's curriculum was drawing to a close. He was about to take
farewell of St Andrews' University. As he was preparing himself for
the Dissenting Ministry, his divinity studies were to be prosecuted in
Edinburgh. It was a time of great excitement among the students.
The winter, with its dull days and its hard work, had gone; and the
spring, with its bright hours and its prospect of country holidays, had
come. Song and laughter were in the air, and infected every one;
and the evenings were entirely given up to farewell merry-meetings.
One of the most important of these was the Gaudeamus of the
Literary Society, held in the Cross Keys Hotel. The chair was taken by
an honorary member, a divinity student of jovial tendencies; and a
galaxy of youthful faces, all glowing with intelligence and good
humour, was grouped before him. What could be the result but an
utter abandonment to the influence of the time? The past, with all
its trials, was forgotten; the future, with its promised happiness, was
taken for granted; and the present, with its grateful pleasures,
engrossed their whole souls.
Prominent among the company was Malcolm Blair. He was, in a
certain sense, the hero of the evening. He had just completed his
literary course with the greatest distinction, having taken his degree
of Master of Arts with special commendation, and come out the first
man of his year in every branch; and he had, therefore, every
reason for being in the highest spirits. During dinner his jokes and
anecdotes kept up a constant roar. After dinner he sang songs and
proposed toasts in the most effective style. And then to crown all, he
was called upon by the voice of the whole company to give his
imitation of Tammy, the mathematical professor. Standing up, and
putting on the well-known grimaces, awkward gestures, and broad
Scotch accent, he delivered a speech on elocution, urging them all to
cultivate a correct and refined style of speaking, and to take an
example from him, the speaker, who, though born and brought up in
Fife, had so thoroughly got rid of his native peculiarities of phrase
and accent, that he defied any stranger to detect even his
nationality. He sat down amid a prolonged shout of applause; and on
every side he was saluted with cries of "Health and Imitation," and
with pressing calls from dozens of his admirers to drink with them.
Replying to these on the spur of the moment, he imbibed more than
he was aware of; and thus it happened, when the meeting broke up,
that he was in a state of the highest excitement.
This state of excitement was, indeed, very unfortunate. But another
unfortunate circumstance was fated to happen. On that particular
night, of all nights in the year, it chanced that his landlady, Mrs
Bourhill, was seized with a sort of fit; and when he reached his
lodgings, he witnessed a most distressing plight—the mother lying
insensible on the sofa, and the daughter wringing her hands and
crying in despair. Alarm and pity took possession of his heart; and
after uttering a few words of sympathy and comfort, he rushed away
and brought back a doctor. The doctor, a young man beginning
practice, was solemn and taciturn. Asking a few questions, and
feeling the pulse of Mrs Bourhill, he looked very grave, and tried one
restorative after another until at length she opened her eyes; and
then, with the aid of the daughter, he led her to her bedroom and
shut the door.
Blair retired to his own room to wait the result. The minutes passed
slowly without a single sound to break the oppressive silence. At last
he heard the doctor go, and shut the outer door; but he waited in
vain for any other sound. Sick of suspense, and imagining all sorts of
evil, he crept quietly out of his room and entered the parlour; and
there he found Miss Bourhill seated on a chair, the picture of silent
misery.
"What has happened?" he asked, in a voice of alarm.
She answered by breaking down into a paroxysm of weeping.
"For God's sake, Miss Bourhill," he cried, "what has happened? Is
your mother dead?"
Then she rose, and with her hair streaming over her shoulders, and
the tears running down her cheeks, she clasped his hands, and said,
"Oh, Mr Blair! you have been so kind. But what am I to do? what am
I to do? The doctor says that mother's condition is very serious, and
that another attack may be fatal, and I shall be left alone in the
world with nobody to care for me." And here she broke down again.
Now, what could this unsophisticated lad do, wrought up as he was
by various causes into a high state of excitement? What could he do
but take her hand, and pat her on the shoulder, and, in his anxiety
to soothe her, protest that he would take care of her? And other
tender promises he made which he was afterwards told about, but
which he did not remember.
Next morning he awoke with a curious, confused feeling which
cannot be described. Amid all the confusion, however, there still
started up the impression that he had said to Miss Bourhill many
things which he ought not to have said. He feared, in fact, that he
had given her the impression that he really loved her; and he
resolved to lose no time in disabusing her mind. He would represent
it as an ordinary flirtation, and would apologise most earnestly and
humbly for trifling with her feelings. He was not going to allow his
future prospects to be blighted, and he must set himself right at
once, and at all hazards. But, unfortunately, this resolute plan of his
was utterly foiled by unforeseen circumstances. No sooner had he
stepped out of his bedroom into the passage than Miss Bourhill,
radiant with the consciousness of one who was both loving and
beloved, and looking really beautiful, had thrown her arms around
his neck and was embracing him; and her mother, glowing with
recovered health, came up and saluted him also.
"Mother," said the daughter, "this is my future husband."
And the mother, blessing them fervently, protested that he was the
very one whom she herself would have chosen, and congratulated
him upon his having secured such a priceless jewel.
"She canna," said she, "strum on the pianny, but she can darn
stockins and mak shirts. She'll no be able to jabber French, but she'll
scrub and cook and keep yer manse comfortable. And she's high-
spirited too, and she'll keep the members o' the congregation in their
proper places. She was jist born to be a minister's wife."
Now what could the fated Malcolm do, involved as he was in such a
witches' coil! He felt that if he didn't speak out and protest at once
he was lost; but the smiles, caresses, and blandishments that were
rained upon him, drugged and chloroformed his powers, and literally
shut his mouth; and he remained speechless and helpless. Two days
afterwards, Malcolm Blair left St Andrews an engaged man. The one
fatal mistake had been made.
During the six months of the summer vacation that Scotch students
enjoy, Malcolm Blair had been accustomed to continue his studies
under the most exhilarating circumstances. What a pleasant change
it was from the closeness and monotony of St Andrews' lecture-
rooms to the airy canopy and ever-changing glories of nature! And
oh, the delight, at daybreak, when the ploughman drove his team
afield amid the thousand melodies of morn; or at noon, when a
golden haze brooded over the pastures and cornfields, and the
silence was broken only by the hum of the bee; or in the evening,
when the scent of flowers was in the air and the coo of the cushat
came from the firry woodland—oh, the delight! to dwell upon the
country scenes of the Mantuan Bard, or roll out the winged words of
Homer, or trill "the native wood-notes wild" of the Swan of Avon.
Standing on the same green earth, under the same glorious sky, and
amid the same perennial influences, he was able to look at things
from their point of view and in their spirit, and thus virtually to
realise—to make real to himself—their thoughts and feelings
regarding Nature.
But now, what a difference! He moped about the fields and hedges a
blighted being. The consciousness of his calamity, like a frosty cloud,
enveloped his imagination; and, seen through this cloud, the world
had lost its glory. And before he had been a week at home there
came from his betrothed a letter which brought the blush to his
cheek. With unsteady pen and bad spelling, the poor girl had
laboured to express her affection, but, alas! had only betrayed her
meagre and undeveloped mind. As he read this epistle at breakfast,
his mother was watching him; and he knew that she was wondering
who his illiterate correspondent could be; and to give her no more
ground for suspicion, he was mean enough to bribe Marjory, the
servant, to bring his letters in future directly to himself, and not to
lay them on the breakfast table.
One day, however, when he was superintending (or "grieving," as it
was called) the haymakers, an idea struck across his brain, and
instantly changed his whole mood, and filled his heart with delight.
Grace, he thought, was uneducated just now, but was it necessary
that she should remain so? She was naturally bright and clever, and
without doubt would be eager to learn. Why should she not have the
opportunity? He would earn some money by going out as a tutor,
and with this money he would send her to a first-class boarding-
school, where she would learn the accomplishments, manners, and
graces; and thus she would become a young lady of whom anyone
in his position might be proud. A fond dream which might so easily
be realised!
But when, in his next letter, he had propounded his plan to Grace,
she, instead of accepting it gratefully, rejected it with the utmost
scorn. She had some difficulty in expressing her love, but none in
giving vent to her indignation. So (she wrote) he was ashamed of
her because she could not jabber a few French phrases, and
hammer on the piano; and he wanted her to go to one of those
boarding-schools, where nothing but what was bad could be
learned. She would not go to one of these dens of wickedness; but
as he was ashamed of her, she would poison herself, and her murder
would lie at his door. Thus ended Blair's first and last attempt to
educate his betrothed.
Three years had passed without altering the state of matters. His
parents had come to know of his engagement, and he saw, by their
looks, how deeply disappointed and chagrined they were. He had
frequently visited Grace; and although he could not help being
pleased with her affectionate greeting, yet her frequent vulgar
remarks, and her mother's coarse style of joking, stung him to the
quick. And now there happened a change of circumstances which
stirred up within him a strange mixture of vexation and delight. The
letters of Miss Bourhill came to be short and far between. He
suspected that there was some new attraction engrossing her; and
he asked a confidential friend in St Andrews to ascertain if this was
so. His suspicion was correct. She was frequently seen with a divinity
student, by name Harker, good-looking after a sort, but notoriously
self-indulgent and even loose in his principles. In fact, his very name
at the University seemed redolent of dissipation; and his presence
among innocent young girls would have been deemed absolutely
blighting. He would have looked like an obscene raven among a
troop of snowy doves. This man was now Mrs Bourhill's lodger, and
it was evident that Miss Grace was trying her charms upon him. The
reason of this double-dealing was equally clear. As a student of the
Established Church, he had the prospect of a better manse, and a
larger and surer stipend, than Blair would ever possess.
This revelation threw Blair into a fever of excitement; and various
feelings within him struggled for the mastery: Indignation at being
jilted for such a worthless rival; shame at having been inveigled into
tying himself to such a mercenary flirt; determination to do his
utmost to free himself; and exultation at the prospect of being able
to do so. Under the influence of this whirlpool of emotion he set out
to walk to St Andrews, and was carried along at a great pace,
scarcely noticing the objects that he passed, and making little of the
long distance. As he drew near to the ancient city, there came into
his view two figures that instantly revived his flagging feelings—
Harker and Miss Bourhill returning from a walk on the links. Keeping
well behind them, he dogged their footsteps, and watched with a
fiendish gratification how they talked, looked into each other's faces
and laughed, until they reached College Street and disappeared in
Mrs Bourhill's house. Then he entered without much ceremony,
received the surprise and the salutation of the two women, who
were in the lobby, with a cold and stern manner, said that he wished
to speak with Grace alone, and following her into the parlour, locked
the door to keep the mother out.
Malcolm lost no time in giving vent to his feelings. He told her the
reports that had reached him; he exposed the deplorable character
of Harker; he demanded that she should break off all
correspondence with this man whose touch was an insult to a
woman; and he wound up by saying that she must, on the spot, and
once for all, choose between him and this new admirer. He spoke
with great vehemence and determination, and expected to see her
completely overwhelmed with shame and confusion.
But what was his astonishment to find that this uneducated girl, with
nothing but her animal cunning, was more than a match for all his
culture, and was prepared to defend her conduct out and out. With
the air and smile of one who was dealing with a testy and
unreasonable child, she proceeded to argue the matter with him. Did
he really mean to blame her, because she spoke to her mother's
lodger, and because she allowed him, when he met her in the street,
to walk home with her? And did he really wish her to promise not to
speak to Mr Harker? They could not afford to turn him away, and as
long as he remained in their rooms they could not insult him. Then,
waxing righteously indignant, she demanded why he employed
sneaks to tell tales of her, and why he came raging and locking the
door as if he were going to murder her. The fact was, that he was
ashamed of her, and wanted to pick a quarrel, and to get an excuse
for throwing her off. But, thank God! although she was a poor girl,
she was not without friends. Her uncle, the solicitor in Edinburgh,
would see that she was not wronged. And having said all this calmly,
she unlocked the door and went out.
After a rest and slight repast at the Star Hotel, Malcolm returned
home full of the gloomiest thoughts. This wretched girl had come
out in her true character—cunning, unscrupulous, heartless. While
she claimed the liberty of throwing him off, he was not to have the
liberty of throwing her off. That reference to her uncle, the solicitor,
showed that the terrors of the law would be employed, if necessary,
to keep him to his bargain. It was a gloomy future that was opening
up before him; and for several days he wandered aimlessly about,
the most melancholy of men.
But Nature takes care that a healthy young soul shall not droop for
long. Like a downtrodden daisy, it revives under the influence of
sunshine and shower, and opens its heart to the brightness of
Spring. When weeks had passed without bringing a letter from Miss
Bourhill, he became sanguine, nay, even confident. Her new flirtation
was evidently prospering. Harker would soon be licensed; and, as he
was glib and clever enough, he would soon get a church and marry
her; and then, oh! what an ominous cloud would be lifted from his
life! He would then be a free man! And so a miraculous change now
came over him. His youth seemed to be restored; and he began to
look with a new and fresh interest on all the old familiar scenes. His
mother noticed the transformation, and knew the cause; and, as she
said to her husband, "Now that the boy was himself again, the
farmyard and the fields seemed brighter and pleasanter."
But unfortunately this exultation was premature. One evening
towards the end of March, as he sat in the parlour reading the
county paper, his eyes fell upon a paragraph which struck him like an
electric shock. He tried hard to fancy that the narrative might not be
true after all; but the details were given in such a circumstantial and
confident manner, that he was compelled in the end to believe them.
They were as follows:—
"Sad Death of a Student.

"On the afternoon of Friday last, two divinity students, Harker

and Johnstone, set out from St Andrews for a walk in the
country. As they passed through Strathkinness, they stopped for
refreshment at a small inn. After a time they seemed to have
grown reckless, and to have set in for serious drinking; and in
rapid succession they ordered tumbler after tumbler of whisky
toddy; and when the landlord, becoming alarmed, refused to
supply them with any more, they left and went to another
public-house, where they had several glasses of brandy. When
they started to go home, they were both unsteady, especially
Johnstone. Some of the villagers saw them staggering down the
street, and overheard Harker abusing his companion for being
drunk. Next morning, Johnstone was found lying dead by the
roadside near Denbrae, between Strathkinness and St Andrews;
and when Harker, who had arrived at his lodgings late on the
previous night, was asked what had become of his companion,
he grew confused, and could only say that he could not get him
to come along, and had been obliged to leave him. On Monday,
the Senatus Academicus summoned Harker before them, and,
after due deliberation, passed upon him the extreme sentence
of expulsion. This is a severe punishment, blighting as it does
his whole future career: but a still more terrible punishment
must be the reflection, that he took a poor unsophisticated
 youth into a public-house, deliberately set to work to make him
tipsy, and then in the end left him to perish by the wayside."

As Blair read this passage, he fell back again into the Slough of
Despond, and all the delight of life vanished once more. He knew
that the siren, whom he now loathed and had hoped to get rid of,
would fall back upon him and again cling to him; and, just as he had
foreboded, in a few days came the well-known hateful scrawl,
appealing in a vulgar manner to his affections. What, she went on to
say, had come over him? Had he fallen in love with some milkmaid
and forgotten his poor little Gracie. She had been breaking her
heart, waiting for a letter from him; and all the neighbours had been
noticing that she had fallen away from her clothes. Was not that a
dreadful scrape Harker had got into? She was not surprised at it,
knowing what a bad character he was. Though she had been obliged
to be civil to him, she had always hated him. Thank goodness she
would now get rid of his attentions! With a whole lot of kisses, and
waiting for a letter from him, she was his own Grace.
After reading this, he gnashed his teeth with vexation and disgust,
tore the letter to pieces, and threw it in the fire. He did not answer
it; and he vowed that from that time he would treat her with the
silent contempt she deserved.
At the end of another year, Blair was licensed to preach, and became
what is called a probationer. He had looked forward to this as the
great epoch of his life, the turning-point of his career, when he was
to become the accredited legate of heaven, to bear the message of
salvation to his perishing fellow-creatures. Could anyone have a
nobler work? But, unfortunately, this sacred office was hampered by
preliminary conditions which he felt to be exceedingly humiliating.
He had first to get a church; and in order to get a church, he had to
please that very uncertain thing called the popular taste. In this
perplexing task, the great stores of learning which he had been
piling up for so many years gave him little or no assistance. He sat
down doggedly and constructed his sermon after the most approved
conventional method. By persistent reiteration he committed it to
memory, word for word. With fluttering heart and trembling knees
he went up to the pulpit on Sunday and began to give it off. During
this unwinding process, he did not see the congregation before him;
but he was looking at the image of his manuscript; and his mind's
eye was running over line after line and page after page. It was a
recitation exercise, and not a living speech coming warm from the
heart of the speaker and going direct to the heart of the hearers.
And all the while, he did not feel that he was pleading with his
fellow-creatures to accept the Word of God. He felt that he was
really begging them to notice how ably he was treating the subject,
how effectively he was delivering it, and what a promising young
creature he was. He was, in fact, a sort of itinerant theological
hawker, hawking his spiritual wares from town to town.
And as time went on, he found himself beaten in the bid for
popularity by fellow-students who were far inferior to him in ability
and scholarship. Sim, who could not for the life of him construe a
Latin sentence, and Macfarlane Macdonald, who was never known to
have a single idea in his head on any subject whatever, found no
difficulty in tickling the ear of the many-headed beast, and became
ordained ministers while he continued to wander about, an uncalled
probationer. It soon became evident that Malcolm Blair, the most
distinguished student of his time, was in danger of becoming "a
stickit minister."
But this universe is constructed on the grand principle of
compensation. Providence seldom inflicts a wound without supplying
a soothing plaster. That want of success, which lands us in poverty
and hardship, scares away our false friends. Miss Grace Bourhill
thought herself too good to be a stickit minister's wife; and while
Blair's fate hung in the balance, ceased altogether to correspond
with him; and at length, to his infinite relief, he heard that she was
married to a cousin of her own, a prosperous brewer in St Andrews.
Freedom at last! and brought about in an unexpected way! He now
gloried exceedingly in his failure as a preacher. What was the want
of manse and stipend compared with the escape from that incubus
which had pressed the very spirit out of him! The world now lay
bright before him, and he was free to go his own way by himself. As
the church did not want him, he would adopt some other calling;
and he was actually preparing himself to undertake either literary or
scholastic work, when he received an invitation to engage in one of
the most striking enterprises of the day.
Those that knew Fife more than fifty years ago must remember Miss
Singleton, who worked such wonders in the way of evangelising the
mining village of Coaltown. She belonged to that strongly-marked
and combative class of female social reformers; and certainly she
was one of the best specimens of the class. She was not, like some
of her sisterhood, conceited, arrogant, and masculine. Though she
was strong-minded, she was also strong-hearted. If she was bold
and aggressive, it was in urging the claims of the oppressed, and not
in exhibiting her own cleverness. Her plan for raising the sunken
masses was direct and drastic. "Get rid," she said to the missionary,
"of all that priestly parade and formality which have concealed so
long the true living face of religion. Return to Christ's sublimely
simple plan, which is founded on the two everlasting facts of the
Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of man. Imitate Him as far
as the circumstances of the time will allow. Go down among the
lapsed masses, not with man-millinery, patronising airs, and doles of
blankets and soup, but with wisdom in your head and real love in
your heart. Live amongst them, become one of themselves, and help
them in their difficulties and sorrows." Such was the method which
Miss Singleton herself had carried out; and the results were said to
be marvellous.
This was the lady who now wrote to Malcolm Blair. "She had listened
to his preaching," she said, "and had heard of him from some other
friends, and she thought that he might be able to assist her in her
labours. She could not give him very much in the form of money, but
he might be able to find some of his reward in the work itself.
Should he think favourably of this proposal, would he kindly call
upon her?"
After considering this matter long and carefully, Blair came to the
conclusion that he could not do better than wait upon Miss
Singleton. And when he had once seen her and talked with her, he
could not refuse her offer. Miss Singleton's whole personality was like
a pleasing revelation to him. Instead of the bold-featured,
masculine-looking woman that he expected to see, he beheld a
gentle and beautiful young lady, the secret of whose power lay in
her feminine tact and sympathy. And when he saw her moving about
among the poor, she seemed to him the very embodiment of the
spirit of Christianity. Wherever there was sickness or sorrow—that
was her chosen abode. There was comfort in the sound of her voice;
there was healing in her very touch. Her smile was the highest
reward, and her look of painful disapproval was the heaviest
punishment. In her presence the coarsest miner felt ashamed of his
conduct, and silently vowed to give up swearing and drinking.
Like the rest of those who came under Miss Singleton's influence,
Blair soon caught her enthusiasm. He threw himself heart and soul
into the work of evangelising Coaltown, visiting the houses of the
poor miners, talking with them in a brotherly way, listening to their
troubles and ailments, and helping them to help themselves. There
were many experiences which filled his senses with disgust, and
even sickened his very soul. But there were also many surprising
results which amply atoned for all his pain. What sight could be
more pleasing than to see a ragged and red-faced drunkard
gradually being transformed into a well-clad and intelligent man; and
what sound could be more delightful than to hear the thanks of a
wife and children for a husband and father reclaimed, and a home
made happy?
But the most gratifying circumstance was a change in his own
nature, which may seem almost miraculous, but which has
happened to others, and which can easily be explained. This new
evangelising work actually remedied the defects of his theological
training; and "the Back Raw" of Coaltown became a school of
eloquence, and did for him what the University and Divinity Hall had
been unable to do. The intimate knowledge which he there acquired
of human nature filled his heart with a fuller sympathy; and this
fuller sympathy let loose his power of utterance. Out of the
abundance of his heart his mouth spoke. He was so eager to supply
comfort and guidance that he gave no thought to his language, and
his language came readily of its own accord. In preparing his Sunday
discourses, there was no longer any need of slavishly writing them
down and committing every word. All he had to do was to think out
the subject, to arrange the details, and to trust to the inspiration of
the moment for the language. The consequence was, that he drew
large audiences, that his fame as a preacher soon spread abroad,
and that, when he least expected such a thing, he received a call
from a large dissenting congregation in the town of Easterton.
Though this call gratified him exceedingly for several reasons, and
chiefly because it vindicated his character as a preacher, and took
him out of the black list of stickit ministers, yet he hesitated before
he accepted it. He found himself bound to Coaltown by a feeling
almost stronger than life itself. In spite of its dismalness and poverty,
it had become to him an enchanted ground. There was a presence
which brightened the landscape; there was a voice which diffused a
holy calm through the air; and this presence and this voice belonged
to Miss Singleton. She was the daybreak that had arisen upon his
night of despondency, and had filled the world with light and
melody; and to part from her was to go back into darkness again.
And when he spoke about his dilemma to herself, he found that she
was just as much affected as he was. With tears in her eyes, she
confessed that she would miss him very much.
However, just when he was on the point of asking why they should
part, and why they should not continue to work together as husband
and wife, she rallied both herself and him to a sense of duty. This
call, she said, had brought a great opportunity of applying the
system to the degraded classes of a large town, which might never
occur again. It was an epoch in his life: it might be an epoch in the
history of Christianity. He must, therefore, throw all other
considerations aside, and accept it. Meanwhile at least, they must
deny themselves all other pleasures. Self-denial was necessary to
their spiritual life. It was the manna which kept them alive in this
wilderness of a world.
Malcolm Blair, accordingly, had no other alternative than to accept
the call; and at the end of a few weeks had to tear himself away
from Coaltown. His only consolation (and it was a great one, filling
his soul with the highest hopes) was that Miss Singleton had shown
that she was most tenderly attached to him.
The 27th of April was set apart for his ordination by the Presbytery
in the dissenting church of Easterton. It was a day that was doomed
to be memorable to him for ever. At the beginning of the ceremony
he was in a melancholy mood. He had been overworking himself,
had fainted more than once, and felt weak and nervous. As he sat
under the pulpit, looking out upon the crowded pews, he saw
nothing in the faces of his new congregation save staring curiosity;
and away to the right was a dark countenance full of settled hate.
He knew who it was. It was the Rev. Ewan Murdoch, who had been
his fellow-student at St Andrews, and had been known as "Dark
Murdoch," and who had been one of the unsuccessful candidates for
the pulpit of the present congregation.
"If I have a mortal enemy," said the new minister to himself, "there
he sits, one of those wretched beings who look upon the success of
a fellow-creature as an unpardonable injury."
Towards the conclusion of the service, however, Malcolm passed into
a better mood. The preacher's sermon on the text, "Fellow-workers
with God," spoke words of encouragement that went to his heart.
The first line of the concluding psalm was, "Unto the upright light
doth rise," and no sooner was it read than an outburst of sunshine
flooded the building. Then, when the congregation in a long line
passed before him to give him the right hand of fellowship, there
was warmth in every smile and in every grip. And amongst them,
what should he see but the face of Miss Singleton! He was so
delighted that he compared her to an angel bringing with her the
atmosphere of heaven.
"Miss Smeaton and I," said she, "came this morning. We must make
some calls in the town, and then we shall drop in at the manse to
have a cup of tea and a long chat."
He left the church full of hope and happiness. As he walked up the
High Street, it was with a springy step, so that the gossips standing
on the stairheads remarked what a pleasant-looking, active man he
was. And when he entered the manse garden at Highfield, he
thought that he had never seen a more charming place. The house
stood on a site commanding an extensive view of the Firth of Forth,
with the castle and spires of Edinburgh distinct against the horizon;
and the garden in front, with its green gooseberry bushes and apple
trees, sloped towards the sunny south. There, too, in the doorway of
his new abode, stood his mother, now in widow's weeds, who had
brought herself and her furniture to make a home for him. Truly he
thought, "the lines had fallen to him in pleasant places." And after a
comfortable lunch, they had a long confidential talk, in which he told
about Miss Singleton's intended visit, and gave a glowing account of
Miss Singleton herself, and hinted that he intended to ask her to be
his wife.
"Then, oh! happiness," he said, "for us three to live in this paradise
together! What a blessed helper she will be in my work, and what a
kind housekeeper and guardian you will make! It is a prospect
almost too good for this world."
They were still talking when the servant came in to say that two
ladies were in the drawing-room wishing to see the minister. Malcolm
started up, radiant with joy.
"Bring them in here," he cried. "Now, mother, you will see my
dearest friend, and, I hope, my future wife."
But, horror of horrors! who should be announced and ushered in but
Mrs and Miss Bourhill, the mother and daughter who had been such
familiar figures in his nightmare of the past. As the terrible
significance of this reappearance dawned upon him, it seemed to
strike him to the heart, and he fell back in a swoon.