FOR THE FIRST week of the year, I abode at the Manse, seeing they were aye anxious to cheer me, and thought (as was doubtless true) that I could not but be lonely and dull, dwelling in my lane in Sunnyside, at that season of the year. Upon the Wednesday, my nephew Claud went back to his studies in Edinburgh, and the next day being Thursday, it chanced that the minister, my brother, was preaching in a neighbouring parish, and was not to be home till late.
So we were sitting in the Manse parlour, in the darkening, the two Marys and me, having converse on divers matters by the fireside, before we got lights into the room. And just at that season, Mr. Allan Elphinstone came to the door, and of necessity behoved to be asked in, seeing it was Mary, my sister, he asked for, and not the minister; besides that, he was aye making errands back and forward, and had, in a manner, got the freedom of the house. So he just came in, and sat down beside us, looking blythe of the opportunity, for I have aye thought, (and so, also, in my judgment, thought Mr. Allan) that there is a measure of kindliness among folk sitting in converse, in the gloaming, by the pleasant light of the fire, which is wanting at other times of the day.
So a while after, Betty came ben with lights and with the tray for the tea.
“Have you dined, Mr. Elphinstone,” said Mary, my sister, “or may we offer you a cup of tea?”
“I was about to ask for one,” said Mr. Allan. “I think I have an especial claim on your benevolence to-night, Mrs. Maitland, being fresh from Cruive End, and greatly in need of the most homelike of all refreshments.”
“Dear me, Mr. Allan!” said I, “but the Manse is far out of the road from Cruive End to Lilliesleaf?”
Mr. Allan gave a kind of laugh, and turned red in the face.
“So it is, Miss Maitland: but you would not, surely, withhold my cup of tea for that reason.”
“At no hand, Mr. Allan,” said I, “only your mother will be wearying.”
Mr. Allan laughed again.
“Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “Miss Mary’s hand is stayed, I perceive. I beg you will take my part, and persuade Miss Maitland that there are greater sins than passing the gate of Lilliesleaf to enter that of the Manse, especially when one has something to communicate.”
“About Cruive End, Mr. Allan?” said I.
“I shall not tell you about whom, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Allan, taking a letter out of his pocket, “till you have endeavoured to recognise the individual mentioned in this letter; and then you will tell me whether my friend is a good portrait-painter or not. Miss Mary, may I beg your particular attention?”
So with that, Mr. Allan opened the letter and glanced over it, and then began to read, never heeding the tea that was standing, turning cold, before him. —
“And now, having made you aware of the progressing education of my son and heir, (the letter began that way, at least the bit that Mr. Allan read of it, and us sitting listening all the time, with perplexed faces), I have to tell you of an acquaintance we have made — a very interesting person, whom I mention here, not simply because she is interesting, but for local reasons, which you shall hear in due time.
“We were walking a day or two since, Helen and I, at an hour not fashionable for loungers, amusing ourselves with Harry’s exuberance of sport, and wishing ourselves at home, when we met a Miss — The name is of no importance,’ said Mr. Allan, glancing up with a smile), “with whom Helen had some previous acquaintance.
“She had with her a dark vision of a girl, to whom we were not introduced, very simply dressed, with neither fashion nor beauty to attract notice, yet, nevertheless, with an indefinable something about her, which compelled involuntary interest and respect — not apparently from her fashionable young lady relative, who seemed to think my bow to the unobtrusive incognita, about whose lip a smile of amused observation was hovering, perfectly superfluous and uncalled for. They passed, however, and we made no acquaintance with the dark ladye then.
“This morning, tempted by clear skies, and a most wild and uncontrollable boy (I believe there never was a little Hercules of four twelvemonths, like mine), we rambled out again — when suddenly, in the vicinity of a very humble house, maintaining a somewhat inarticulate conversation with a simple looking yung-frau, we fell upon our unknown.”
I saw Mary make a motion with her hands, as if she was going to dap them, and her face got a blythe look, but she did not speak, though Mr. Allan glanced off his letter at her for a moment. —
“The yung-frau was voluble, deep apparently in some interesting subject — the hand of our youthful countrywoman was on the sunburnt head of a sturdy little Saxon Harnschen, while we stood looking on.
“At length, in answering some question of her companion’s, the stranger stumbled on an English word, for which I ventured to suggest the German synomyne. My reward was a sudden turn of the unknown’s head, with such a flush of bright intelligence as illuminated the dark face in an instant, ‘making a sunshine in a shady place.’”
“Bless me, Mr. Allan,” said I, “wherefore did you not tell me it was my dear bairn, Grace?”
Mr. Allan went on with his reading, smiling to himself.
“Her name, she told us, was Maitland, and Helen and she were friends immediately. Now do you ask me, Elphinstone, the purpose of this, my particular narrative of our acquaintance making? For your express benefit, man, was the acquaintance made, for is not the darke ladye a neighbour of your own?
“By education and upbringing, at least, to use her own words, friends of her own name she has residing in your near neighbourhood, of whom she speaks with the most enthusiastic affection; speaks, moreover, with so classic and pure a Scottish accent, that one can scarcely believe, while listening to her, that one is under the shadow of a Serene Highness, the sceptre of whose sovereign authority extends over possessions a few acres larger than those of Lilliesleaf.
“Our dark ladye is here with an aunt, for whom she seems to entertain no very particular veneration, though she carefully avoided mentioning her disrespectfully, or indeed mentioning her at all. I chanced to express my wonder that we had never met her in this place, where people live so much in public; but the simple ‘It is my aunt’s desire,’ forbade all questioning.
“I advise you to come back to Germany, Elphinstone, and see if you cannot—”
“Oh,” said Mr. Allan, stopping in a hurry, “that is all, I daresay, of any interest. The rest refers to other matters. And what do you think of my friend as a painter of portraits, Miss Mary?”
“I knew at once that it was Grace,” said Mary, looking more pleasant like at Mr. Allan, than I had seen her for a while, “but any one could draw Grace, Mr. Elphinstone — it is so easy to see —— there are so few like our Grace!” —
“The dear bairn!” said I, “I had a glimmering of it’ myself, Mary, whenever Mr. Allan began, only I aye thought the gentleman was writing from England, till he came to the bit about foreign things — but, truly I think not that Grace is so dark; though maybe she has gotten brown with the sun.”
“The Germans are fair, flaxen people, I think,” said Mary, my sister; “that may account for it; for Grace was not so very dark at home. Is your friend a Scotsman, Mr. Elphinstone? he seems to have liked our Grace’s pleasant tongue.”
“A Scotsman — yes!” said Mr. Allan, “half, at least. He is a fine fellow, with a very nice wife, and is in Germany, for I really don’t know what reason — either their health or their income, I suppose, required nursing. He says, in a postcript, that they are compelled to give up thoughts of improving their acquaintance with your ward, Miss Maitland, as they have letters requiring their presence in England, so they had merely a glance of Miss Grace — but little as it is, I thought it would interest you.”
So we had much more converse, both concerning Grace, and concerning other things, and bye-ordinary blythe, and well-pleased, Mr. Allan looked, sitting in the midst of us there, with the tea on the table, and like as if he was just one of ourselves.
So a while after that, he said: “I am emboldened to make another trial of your patience. I have a manuscript in my pocket, Miss Mary, which I would very fain read to you, if I might have permission. Miss Maitland has got to work again, I see. May I be permitted to read this?”
“Is it a letter, Mr. Elphinstone?” said Mary.
“Oh no! not a letter,” said Mr. Allan; “it is — a poem.”
“A poem, Mr. Allan!” said I. “And did you write it yourself?”
“By no means, Miss Maitland,” said Mr. Allan, laughing. “There is no saying what I might have done in that way, if you had not smothered my aspirations in the bud. It is not my own. Its author is a youthful friend of mine, of whom more hereafter; but I should like to read his production to you before I tell you of himself. Have I your permission, Mrs. Maitland?”
“We shall be very glad to hear it, Mr. Elphinstone,” said Mary, my sister.
So Mr. Allan began to read, and seeing (though truly I do not pretend in any manner to be a judge; that it entered into my spirit, even like some old dream of my own, I will write it down here. There may be some that it will be a history to, as it was to me; and for folk that have never had the like imaginings, nor met with the like tribulations, truly they may just pass it by.
HOPE.
A HISTORY.
The sun shone upon a fair fortress, strong in its defences, and beautiful to look upon. Wall rose within wall, like the terraced side of some luxurious Eastern mountain, and a strong citadel, crowned by the sunbeams, rose invincible in the midst.
Dark with the hosts of a beleaguering army were the sunny slopes around the fortress. Everywhere across the light fell heavy shadows. The earth, that could not choose but bring forth flowers, sighed continually for her children as they died beneath rude feet. The distant tramp of armed men proclaimed new foemen ever on their way; and the fair fortress had but one defender.
Calm within the outer wall of the stronghold, she stood unarmed and alone. The hostile trumpet rang fiercely without, but the song of the solitary voice rose unbroken within. A light was upon her head; it was the steadfast sunlight of the summer day. Her white garments rustled; it was a breath of gentle wind, as soft as ever rustled summer leaves by the side of quiet waters. She looked abroad upon the gathering hosts. She heard the distant tramp of armed men, and she smiled — for her name was Hope.
The outer wall of the stronghold was builded of stone, rich with rare carvings; and lo! upon one was graven, “When the eye saw her, then it blessed her!” And another bore the blessing of him who was ready to perish, and every stone had its device of good report, and gentle sympathy, and universal love. And the law of kindness bound them into one steadfast battlement, strong to look upon as the rocks, or the mountains that are from everlasting.
The air was loud with the clamour of the foemen. The earth was darkened as with the shadow, and echoed as with the rushing of many wings. The host pressed upon the wall. They stormed it, but made no breach: they scaled it, but could not reach the summit; and Hope stood calm within its shadow, and lifted up her voice, and sung —
“Like clouds upon the sky —
Lo! peace and strife, As days are born and die, Float on thy breath, oh life! Thou buildest with wise art, Things kind and gentle all, And at the weakest point, the warmest heart Strengthens thy wall.
And so we keep out strife, By thy glad kindnesses, oh life!”
But a captain of the host drew near, and with him an instrument fashioned in the darkness of the land of evil, and they mined the earth below the wall.
The foundations were moved, and the battlements shook, as with a passing wind. Again — and yet again — and the rare carvings began to crumble from the stone, and the bonds of the law of kindness loosened, and the wall trembled: yet Hope looked on with a look of wonder and smiled, for she wist that it was but some passing fantasy, and all would stand firm again.
The copestone tottered — the wall was rent. There was a breach in the east, towards the sunrising, and she stood with the smile stayed upon her lip, and marvelled. The foe pressed upon the breach, the broken bulwarks crumbled beneath the heavy footsteps, but Hope glided within the inner wall, and the strong gate closed upon her in proud security. For the smile of wonder was still upon her lip, and her heart was not dismayed.
And fairer to look upon was that inner wall, circling her round about with a tightened girdle, and the stones were stones of price, graven with the names of brethren and of sisters — sweet gush of music that the shout and the trumpet could not silence — and Hope looked abroad from her safe refuge, and gazed wonderingly on the crumbling ruins that had fallen below.
Wherefore did they fall? These carven stones, bound by the strong links of the law of kindness — wherefore were they loosed? wherefore did they fall? And Hope began to lift her eyes to the clear heavens and to ask — wherefore? But there came no answer from the sky!
Suddenly, a mighty cloud covered the bosom of the heavens. The world grew still and trembled, because it could not choose but listen to the stern rebuking voice of the spirit of the storm. Heavy, amid the silence, the tears of awed and voiceless nature rang upon terraced walls and pavement With a blue and ghastly radiance, the lightning began to shimmer in the stones of price, and the thunder pealed its ponderous trumpet over broken battlement and besieging army, till the ruined walls sunk further down, and the carvings crumbled from each remaining stone.
Yet was not Hope afraid. The rain fell heavily around, but only cast its gentlest spray upon her head, and lay there, twined among her tresses, like errant gems or dew-drops. And her white raiment was not sullied in a fold, for she stood within the shelter of the radiant wall, that girdled her with its zone of love.
The wild light blazed around, but she only read the clearer, the name of here a sister, and there a brother, graven on the stones of price. And she looked upward unto the troubled heavens, and abroad upon the enemy, and listened to the distant march of a thousand foemen more, and she smiled, for wherefore should she fear?
“Ye puny warriors,” said the chief of the besieging army to the bands that stormed the wall, “here is no work for you. Call hither mine heir.”
And lo! a dark shadow passed over the breach, and the armies bowed their heads before him, and did him reverence, for he was the son of their king, and the name of him was Death.
“Heir of mine inheritance,” said the chieftain of the foe, “behold a wall which before Malice and Doubt and Falsehood, brave captains though they be, stands invulnerable. Thou and I have power upon the earth. Shall we be foiled?” and the dark shadow answered “No.”
The cloud rolled from the heavens, and passed away unto the tops of distant mountains, where it lingered, muttering wrath, and looking on from afar. The sunshine fell again like a rich garment on the radiant fortress wall. And Hope looked abroad upon the bands of armed men and saw them gather in reluctant ranks, as though like the storm to pass away. And when she held her breath to listen, the march of the coming foemen had ceased. And her heart grew glad within her, and her rejoicing burst forth into song. —
“Ah, Peace!
Sister of mine, The loudest storm must cease Where thy sweet glances shine.
Calm grows the affrighted air, So rare an art is thine, At lifting of thine eyelids fair, Sister of mine!”
But the dark shadow stood without the wall and the sunshine quailed before him.
“’Tis told that bells of silver ring, In eastern lands on maidens feet; So tread the streamlets in gay spring, So is thy footfall sweet.
Let thy calm lillies shine, So shall these discords cease, Sister of mine, Sweet Peace!”
Leaning upon the radiant battlement, with its graving of dear names, stood Hope in her thanksgiving. Without fluttered the still shadow, with one misty arm raised, and one fearful finger pointing to a stone — a precious stone, a stone of all its neighbours most rarely graven, and flashing in the sunshine with the purest lustre. It loosens — it shakes. It has fallen, and through the vacant place, Hope looks upon the dark shadow face to face, and her song is stilled, and her smile is gone.
The finger pointed again in the breathless silence, and another fell, and yet another, and Hope threw her fair arms over those that remained, clinging to them in her agony, but they fell.
Again, again! The stern shadow compassed the wall, and in the silence you heard but the breaking of the stones of price. And yet a little while, and Hope will be a captive, with a broken heart; only there is yet another wall, and her spirit in its grief is still strong; for the shadow has power upon earth, but not all power.
So Hope planted her footstep sadly on an inner threshold, and again the gates closed behind her, and she was safe once more.
But there rises no song now, and there shines no smile. Wistfully, and with tearful eyes, she gazed on the broken battlements below, longing only to gather the fragments; yearning over the dust whither they have Mien, yet able to reach none; listening not now to the trumpet that cheered on these thickening ranks, nor to the march of distant foemen; for she leaned upon the highest wall, and there was but the citadel behind.
The wall was of gold, rich as the last sunbeams that linger in the west, and graven upon it were olden stories, that told how heart hath dung to heart, the wide world over; how amid multitudes thronging like the forest leaves, one hath ever chosen one. And from the fervid lays of the Orient, and the treasured lore of the thoughtful North, had been gathered most moving histories, to give a voice of power to the rich gold of the lettered wall. And its voice was powerful — exceeding low — exceeding sweet. And it entered the mourner’s heart.
The sun set in the Western Sea, the lamps were lit in the watch-towers of Heaven. The foemen descended from the wall, and gathered on the field, the vassals to rest, the chiefs to counsel. And Hope stood alone in the night, leaning upon her golden battlement, and gazing wistful up into the starred and solemn sky.
The gates of the citadel behind were open, and forth from the doorway issued a breeze, fresh as a truant from the wide sea, and breathing of old ocean still. It moved her garments lightly, as though to draw her within the surer shelter, and on its fresh breath came a voice saying:
“Ah, Hope, sweet Hope! turn thee to the stronghold, so shalt thou keep this defence also.”
But the light of a fair star was tracing out a plaintive story, graven on the lettered wall, and Hope did not listen to the voice.
But she leaned upon her wall of gold, and communed with the solemn stars, and looked abroad upon the earth in its rustling robes of silence, and in the sickness of her heart, she murmured:
“Though all forsake me, yet will not thou.”
And lo! from the depths of her memory came a voice:
“Where thou goest, I will go; and where thou dwellest, I will dwell; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
And the smile came again upon her lip, only it was no more a smile of gladness, but it was a smile of faith.
The stately Night passed on, sweeping her rich garments over the highest hills. The air grew grave and solemn with the deep, still breath of midnight, and Hope stood in the silence, the slow hours dwelling with her till they grew friends — a life-time in a night.
And lo! into her heart there came a still joy, stealing upon her sorrow as the moonbeams steal upon the sea; a joy that was half grief, and yet was joy; a gladness that brooked no words, no songs, no rejoicing, but rather spoke in tears, full and deep, and silent as the night.
The morning broke, and Hope still leaned upon her golden wall; and without, in the dim twilight, the chief of the beleaguering army approached, in cover of the mists, with the dark shadow by his side.
“Son,” said the chieftain, “shall this work be thine also?”
But the shadow answered, “No. Hitherto can I come, but no further. Lord and Father, the work is thine!”
So they compassed the wall, and Hope leaned upon her strong battlement, and read in the faint morning light a history of steadfast faith and love that could not die, and her heart grew strong within her.
Far below, the crumbled stones of the lowest wall lay in ignoble dust, and she heeded them not; but midway on the ascent lay fragments of the stones of price, sparkling still with as pure lustre as when their radiant wall encircled her; and upon the fragments lay the clear dew of morning, the baptismal sprinkling of the young day.
The heart of Hope yearned over the precious stones, whereon these beloved names lingered still, broken yet not destroyed, but she might not reach them, nor could they shelter her ever more. And the yearning of her heart flowed forth in trustfulness, and she leaned only the more upon her golden wall.
The sun rose high, the young day passed swiftly onward to its prime. The earth moved uneasily, fevered beneath the hot glance of these fervid sunbeams, and Hope drew her veil over her fair head and laid her hand upon the battlement.
The gold burned like a wall of fire, and Hope withdrew her hand. Surely it was but the noon sunbeams, and it would be cool anon.
So she turned to read a history, a grave legend of the North, wherein was recorded a firm and constant faithfulness, which neither grief nor joy could turn away, and which overcame all things. And lo I upon the hot forehead of the wall trickled golden drops, blotting the words she sought to read, and through her heart ran a thrill of fear, yet she said:
“It is but the hot sun of noon,” and laboured to smile, but she knew not that there were flames blazing without the wall, in which she had put her trust.
For the chief of the foemen and his dark bands are there piling up faggots close by the wall — and the flames are rising fiercely, and the hot sun shines, and the golden battlement is sinking between the twain.
“Who will dare for me the crossing of this wall?” said the chieftain. “Who will keep the door of yonder citadel, that she may not escape into the stronghold?”
And lo! there stood by his side a shrivelled child, with a gray and aged face, and said:
“Here am I.”
And they who stood about called him — Despair.
“Thou hatest her with a deadly hatred,” said the chieftain. “Yea, but such as she have a talisman, whereby they know us: thou shalt abide thy time; but bring me hither yonder captive girl. She may do my errand well.”
So they brought to him a weeping maiden, clothed in long raiment, the colour of sadness, and ever as she came she drooped her head, and wrung her hands and sighed, “Ah, me!” and might do nothing more.
And so had she come into captivity, for when they pursued her, she did but sigh, and weep and bemoan herself, and could not flee.
And so they lifted her over the hot wall which ran down now a stream of molten gold, and bade her that she should sit at the door of the citadel, and stay the entrance of Hope, for they wist that Hope also in her extremity would tarry with her to mourn and weep, and would thus be taken in their toils.
Within the circle of the sinking wall stood Hope. Her white garments gathered round her — her light foot pressing painfully on the hot pavement. The sun will be down anon, perchance then shall this be stayed. But the soul of Hope is sick within her, and she can smile no more. Oh! these pleasant histories of truth and love, and marvellous constancy: — are there none true? for, lo! how, they are melting with the wall.
Lower, lower, a molten stream of gold, with all its fair histories effaced, and only change and falsehood floating in its red waves — and the weeping maiden has stolen to the door of the citadel, and sits her moaning herself, and sighing “Ah, me!” but Hope heedeth her not The breeze floats out from the cool citadel, fanning her forehead, drawing in her white garments, and upon it comes again the voice, saying; “Turn thee to the stronghold, thou prisoner, Hope! So shalt thou have rest!”
But the voice is to her ear but as some passing note of music, and she knoweth not the words.
She will not weep — nay, but she win be proud. And yet again she weeps, and the tears boil upon the burning wall — and whither shall she flee? For almost the foeman could mount now, it hath sunk so far, and it was her last trust. Perchance, if she could but wait till eventide, the havoc might be stayed. If only the soft dews and the cool night could breathe upon the wall.
Molten, sinking, a little space and it win be level with the pavement. A mist came upon the eyes of Hope, but she knew that she must flee, and she went forward groping with her arms, because her eyes were dim, and murmuring, “Oh that I had wings like a dove, that I might flee away, and be at rest.” But she thought not that rest was at hand.
“Ah, Hope! sweet Hope, turn thee ‘t the stronghold.”
The voice would not cease, and the breeze drew her garments in, and her groping hand touched the lintel of the doorway, low and straight.
“Tarry, ah, lady! and weep with me,” said the sighing maiden, “for I am very sad.”
But Hope might not weep. And the voice besought, and the breeze drew her nearer, and her hot hand lingered gratefully on the cold and firm stone, and she entered in.
Straightway the strong breeze closed the heavy door with a ringing note of triumph; and a shout rang through the air. But it was the shout of baffled foe-men, for they had gained the terraced pavement, as Hope crossed the threshold of the stronghold, and again she was beyond their reach.
The walls of the citadel were of cold grey stone, graven with no pleasant histories, and from the door-way, even to the domed roof there wound a stair, heavy and dark, and strong; and through the window in the high roof, you might see a glimpse of blue sky, far up and distant; but nothing more. And Hope sat upon the lowest step, and laid her aching head upon her hands, and was stall awhile, for her heart was full of pain.
Only there had entered into her soul one Mighty Name — a Name with which the air within that citadel was fragrant, breathing it with a deep love that was too full for speech — the name of One who hath been shadowed through all early times, and remembered in all late: of Him who was King of Righteousness first, and then of Peace, like the royal priest of old Arabia. The sum of all glory and all might, and all tenderness, was in that Name, and it entered into the soul of Hope.
And straightway she arose, and began to ascend the heavy winding stair. Slow and painfully, for her frame was weak, and her heart weary. And there was one arrow-slit in the wall, from whence she looked abroad, and saw the foemen thronging about the citadel; the stern chieftain, and the dark shadow, who was the heir of his kingdom; and Hope hastened to mount higher. Nevertheless, her heart abode in quietness, for the name of that Mighty One was a strong tower, and she was safe.
So she laboured on: slowly, painfully, one by one, yet she mounted higher. And the sky, far above, grew nearer, and looked down peacefully with its steadfast blue eye, through its white veil of clouds. And Hope pressed onward, and her heart grew still within her, like a hushed child.
The evening came — the night — placid and quiet as night ever fell, and in the silence of its mid hour, Hope reached the summit of the stair — so high that she could hear no longer the stir of the armed hosts below; so high that stars looked down into her pale and meditative face, as with the eyes of friends, and the hours passed in a solemn march, not sorrowful, and yet not full of dreams, like the hours of yester-night.
The morning rose, softly, and with gentle tears, hiding her sun behind a pleasant cloud, and Hope opened the domed roof-window to look forth upon the foemen. The summer wind played softly on her; the summer raindrops fell on her head like blessings. She looked abroad, and behold I the dark armies had faded from the earth like mists, and there only shone, below, the broken fragments of the stones of price, gemmed with the peaceful dew: for Hope had escaped into the stronghold, and the army of her enemies had fled, before the naming of the Mighty Name.
So, when Mr. Allan was done, we got into converse concerning the thing he read to us, my sister Mary thinking it was, in a manner, dim and misty, and did not tell its own story so clear as it might have done. For truly, Mary, my sister, has lived a most quiet and pleasant life, (and I know not any mortal that deserves better the good gifts she has gotten,) and has little acquaintance with the secret tribulations that make folk quick to discern a parable like that.
But I think not it was so with the bairn Mary, any more than with myself, though where the innocent thing bad learned any measure of experience in such matters, I know not, but bairns have ever pleasure in imaginings.
So, Mr. Allan had just told us how he fell in with the young man that wrote it, who was dwelling in one of the houses at Cruive End, with ill health and scant providing, when the minister, my brother, came in, which turned our converse upon other things, and no long after, Mr. Allan went home to Lilliesleaf, seeing that it was wearing far on in the night.