acrimonious. Speculative antipathies indeed are more intense and implacable than personal ones, and perhaps no one is so truculent as a humanitarian.

"Homer calls the king the shepherd of the people," continued Andrew; "nowadays he would call him the butcher of the people. What are we? Sheep for the slaughter, after we have first been well shorn. But it will not last, Miss Marjoribanks. The Seine will flow into the Thames."

“I hope not, Mr. Prosser,” said Miss Marjoribanks, earnestly. "Its waters are red with blood and salt with human tears."

"Tyranny, when it grows to a plethora, needs bloodletting," said Andrew, vehemently. "I grant you the French Revolution has been a violent remedy. A people brutalised by oppression acts brutally. The rulers of France sowed the wind, and have reaped the whirlwind. But, as Andrew Marvell says of our own Revolution in the time of Charles I., the French Revolution

'To all lands not free
Shall climacteric be.'"'

“I have no wish to discuss such subjects,” said Miss Marjoribanks, somewhat coldly. "But I would earnestly warn you, Mr. Prosser, to beware of what you say to those you are not absolutely sure of. But here comes papa," and she rose from her seat with an obvious air of relief.

Mr. Marjoribanks entered the room. He was tall and somewhat gaunt, his cheeks a little sunken, and his shoulders rounded, but the brightness of his deep

blue eyes and the fresh colour of his mobile lips indicated an abundant store of vitality. The fine contour and ample size of his forehead were rendered more conspicuous by his baldness.

"A sicht o' you, Andrew, is guid for sair een," he said, with a winning smile, as he came forward and shook Mr. Prosser heartily by the hand. So you have brought your fiddle," and taking up the instrument he thrummed the strings in a pizzicato style as he went on talking.

"I have just seen Bella Simpson, Milly; she is turning a beautiful girl. I wish we could get her away from her uncle's. Not that Simpson is a bad fellow; he is a very regular hearer, and a bit of a theologian ; but that inn of his harbours queer customers. Then his wife-it's sad, very sad."

"I think Bell might with proper training become a good teacher of music," said Miss Marjoribanks. “She has an enchanting voice."

"She sings as if she were 'quiring to the youngeyed cherubim,' ” said Mr. Majoribanks. “Oh, why is it, Andrew, that truth has not such a soul-subduing organ? Don't you think she would make anybody good if she merely sang the Ten Commandments, while I never mind. Crows are needed as well as nightingales, I suppose."

"She has got a famous headpiece," said Andrew, with professional enthusiasm. "She's as far as cube root in arithmetic, and quadratics in algebra, and she's uncommonly clear about the use of the subjunctive mood, which is, as you know, Mr. Marjoribanks, a crucial test of Latinity."

"It is, as I know to my cost," said Mr. Marjoribanks, the right corner of his mouth descending in a humorous smile. "But never mind Latin; it's dead, and it's a pity that it is n't decently buried, with a Requiescat in pace engraved upon its tombstone, expressing the pious aspirations of schoolboys. Tune up your fiddle, while I go and freshen myself with a wash."

Miss Marjoribanks sat down to the harpsichord, and gave Andrew his A, embroidering it with softly sounded chords, till his instrument was in tune; and then she glided into the sweet old melody, "There grows a bonnie briar-bush in oor kailyard," while Andrew supplied a dexterous "vamp," as he called it.

The minister now reappeared, and got his 'cello in order.

“We'll give a sop to Cerberus, Andrew, and play a few sacred pieces at first, while folks are stirring about. People call me the 'fiddling minister,' which is much worse than being a ‘fuddling minister,' mind you; so we'll strike up some of the songs of Zion-eb, Andrew? What say you to 'Now Israel may say '?" "It's a grand tune," said Andrew-" a kind of Covenanting march."

"Then we might try 'Adeste Fideles.' Why do you smile, Milly? I didn't invent the title. After that it's well to have a programme-we might take the glorious minuet from Handel's 'Saul,' thensound your A again, Andrew."

The programme was duly carried out and liberally extended, with intervals of sociable conversation;

and by ten o'clock, after various delicate and cautious gradations of selection, the musical rehearsal tapered off with reels and strathspeys. At about eleven o'clock Andrew left the manse. The village was buried in profound stillness, and he could hear with absolute distinctness the waves plashing on the shore, and the rattle and clash of the pebbles sucked back by the undertow. It was a very dark night, and as Andrew turned into the lane leading to the schoolhouse, he came suddenly into collision with the burly figure of a man. Andrew, with instant exasperation --for his nerves were still tingling with musical excitement-gave the man a vindictive push, for which he was rewarded with a growling imprecation.

"Oh, is it you, Simpson?" said Andrew, recognising Simpson's favourite expletive.

"Mr. Prosser!" exclaimed the other, with an abrupt transition to marked civility of tone. My excuses. It's fell dark the nicht; I'm wae for the revenue cutters-baith them and the free-traders will be droppin' anchors this nicht; " and he gave a significant laugh. "Weel, weel, we maun a' live."

“I have something to say to you, Simpson,” said Andrew, lowering his voice. "Come on to the bents with me."

THE

CHAPTER III.

A TALK ON THE BENTS.

HE two men went along the bents, approaching at the same time the shore. A dilapidated upturned boat lay on the margin of the grassy slope, and sitting down, they leaned their backs against it. For a minute or two they listened to the rhythmic plash of the waves, and the random gusts of wind filling the waste places of the night. Andrew had fallen into a reverie, probably a melancholy one, for he sighed when he was aroused by Simpson's question—

"Well, what is it, Andrew? Andrew cleared his throat.

"Ye ken, Simpson, that I have been whiles useful to you and your clanjamfry o' dare-devils."

"I ken that, Mr. Prosser," said the other, with gruff heartiness. "And ye can aye get a keg o' spirits when ye give me the hint."

"Oh, I'm aware ye are always willing to liquidate your obligations," said Andrew. "But drinking is not much in my line-beyond a post-prandial dram, that is; and if I wink at your on-goings, and even at times lend ye a helping hand, ye may be sure I have other reasons. I'll maybe tell ye what they are when I can lippen to ye."