To gain time, Sandy produced his snuff box and, after tapping it nervously, offered it to the minister.

"Och, the wee keggie," said he cheerfully, "Och, nossing-nossing at all a bit whuskey whateffer."

There was an awful pause. Sandy's eye fell before the minister's and Sandy's feet began to shuffle. Guile

less innocence was not going to work this time. Wildly he cast about in his mind for a reason-any reason which would satisfactorily explain the presence of the wee keggie. His eye fell upon the potato sack.

"Whuskey and small potatoes," he began slowly, then with a burst of confidence

"Whuskey and small potatoes would pe good for the measles."

The minister sternly repressed a desire to laugh. Ordinary men might find Sandy's subterfuge delightful, but in the pursuit of his duty he was not as other men.

"This must cease, Sandy," said he firmly. "I cannot and will not countenance it any longer."

"God forbid!" said Sandy, greatly shocked. "It iss not herself that would be asking you, Maister Mac-a-ferson."

"But can't you understand that as long as I permit you to continue in your service at the kirk that I am countenancing it. You must surely see that, Sandy." There was real distress in the minister's tone.

"She would not pe understanding, but she would not pe likin' to be vexin' you, Maister Mac-a-ferson," said Sandy in conciliatory tones.

"Then will you promise to do better, Sandy-not to-not to visit the wee keggie too often?"

"Och, yes, inteed, she'll no do that whateffer," said Sandy, earnestly; "she would not pe tastin' more nor would pe good for herself."

And with this the minister was forced to be content.

But it so happened that that very Saturday night the minister himself, returning late from a sick bed, was the disgusted spectator of Sandy's nocturnal home-bringing.

Sandy had not, broken his word. His interpretation of what was "good for herself" was different from the minister's, that was all. But Mr. MacPherson did not realise that the fault lay in his own narrow notion of how much a hard Scotch head can stand and be "none the worse whateffer." And so it happened that while Sandy slept the sound sleep due to a "wee droppie" and a clear conscience, the minister sat in his study and composed a new sermon on the text "Without are drunkards."

This was a sermon talked of for many a day by those gentle-minded Lowlanders who had the privilege of hearing it, as "fut tae mak' the hair stan' on yer heid," and even the stolid Highlanders admitted that as a discourse it was "ferry powerful whateffer."

Indeed the stern young minister spoke from the depths of his heart and it was not his fault if those depths were severely Calvinistic. He felt himself filled with holy fire, a chosen vessel for the warning and rebuke of an endangered Israel. The hot words poured from his lips, he forgot that he was young and inexperienced and that he had determined to go slowly and feel his way. He only remembered that

he was the minister of God and these were his people of whose spiritual welfare he must give account, and the congregation heard him gladly, rejoicing to know that the "meenister was speakin oot."

After the service Mr. MacPherson waited awhile in the session room, lingering in the hope that Sandy, a repentant sinner, might wish a word with him. And Sandy came.

Very warmly he grasped the minister by the hand, though this was a salute almost unknown among the undemonstrative Highlanders.

"Och, Maister Mac-a-ferson," said he in frankest admiration, "it wass a fine stirrin' word that you wass givin' us, och, yes. But herself was sinking that if there wass anyone that would pe given to tastin' more than wass good for herself she would

When Sandy was gone the minister sat down by his open Bible and laughed a little hysterically. Perhaps it was the reaction of the morning enthusiasm.

It was that day with the black reaction upon him that he spoke of his trouble to Alexander Morrison, one of the wildest yet most sympathetic of the younger portion of his flock.

"The elders wont see it, and Sandy can't see it," he complained, "but everybody else sees it--and it is a scandal in the kirk."

And Alick was very sympathetic, saying that surely it could not last much longer; and, as he said it, in his mischievous, hair-brained head a plan grew, for Alick was very fond of the minister and Sandy was an old enemy of his not far distant youth. This plan This plan of his was a fine plan: it would at once relieve the minister of the reproach of Sandy's carrying the "Book," and would provide for himself amusement and revenge.

So it chanced that no one, with the exception of one conscience-stricken scamp, ever knew what made poor Sandy's one wee drap so unusually potent upon a certain Sabbath morning. None could guess the cause but the effect was patent to everyone. Elder Mackay said afterwards that he

saw somesing wass wrong when Sandy came in wis the 'Book' and was 'ferry sankful that the meenister would not pe noticin."

The sermon that morning was upon the text "His own received Him not,' and the minister was at his best. His voice, always low though clear and sweet, was to-day deeper and more tender than was usual. The congregation listened with awe and reverence to what was to them indeed and in truth the Word of the Lord. They never for an instant doubted that the Lord was in His Holy Temple. I have been in many churches and listened to many services but I have never found the atmosphere of reverent worship which I remember in the old frame

Into the midst of this solemn quiet, through which the low voice of the minister spoke to the hearts of his hearers, broke a terrific snore, then another, then another, then a crash, for the violence of the last snore had lifted Sandy bodily from his seat and deposited him upon the floor.

The minister paused, flushed painfully, and then tried to go on mechanically with his sermon. But he had lost himself. Again and again he broke, and finally, bringing his words to a hurried conclusion, came down from the pulpit and vanished into the session room.

From the first snore everybody knew that Sandy's fate was sealed. They had no sympathy or consideration for him now. He had disgraced himself and defiled the kirk and shamed the minister. Never again would he carry the "Book" with stately step and reverend mien. His service in the House of God was over.

The congregation dismissed that morning without the singing of the usual psalm. They went out slowly, saying little, leaving Sandy slumbering upon the floor. Presently the minister issued from the session room and walked quickly away, speaking to no one. His heart was full of Godly rage towards poor, misguided Sandy.

Of Sandy, when he awoke in the deserted kirk I may not tell. After a few minutes' thought and remembrance he came to himself and his heart knew its own bitterness. No one would have recognised in the shrunken, shamed man who crept out of the side entrance and hurried away, the fine, erect officer of Embro kirk. By many side ways he reached his home and, without a look around, went in and closed the door.

Two weeks afterwards came Elder Mackay to the minister.

"I would be speaking aboot Sandy," began the elder without preliminaries.

"I refuse to discuss the subject," said the minister coldly.

The minister was troubled. He knew that his elder must have felt deeply to have said so much. For the first time in the two weeks he felt a little distrustful as to the Godliness of his rage; perhaps, after all, he might

"Where is he?" he asked abruptly. "She will pe at home," said Elder Mackay briefly, knowing that he had won his point.

"I will see him," said the minister, and taking their hats the two set off in the direction of Sandy's cottage. The minister alone went in.

There was a low fire in the little stove which had replaced the oldtime fireplace and over it a man was bending, a man who was old and bowed and who did not glance up as the door opened. The last trace of the minister's Godly rage vanished before that silent despair.

"Sandy," he said kindly; "haven't you a word for me?"

"She would pe pleased to see you, Maister Mac-a-ferson," said Sandy in an expressionless tone, rising painfully to place a chair in his old reverential fashion.

"You don't look well, Sandy," said the minister sympathetically.

"She is not ferry weel," replied Sandy dully.

Then the minister took the bull by the horns.

"When are you coming back to the kirk, Sandy?" he asked, and no one in the congregation would have been more surprised than himself as he said it.

A spasm passed over Sandy's face, leaving it duller than before. And for the first time the minister noticed the whiskey jug beside him on the floor. Sandy did not answer.

"We were very sorry for what happened" began the minister, and then he stopped, feeling uneasy, like a man who has referred to another's shame before his own face.

"When are you coming back, Sandy?" he asked again.

Then Sandy lifted his face and looked at him with the look of a man condemned.

"Let us pray," said the minister, who felt that in the face of the man's trouble he was powerless. He stood

and prayed, then he sat down and spoke again kindly, encouragingly, even entreatingly, but all his efforts were as fruitless as if he had beat his hand against a rock.

It was a minister with a white, exhausted face who left Sandy's door that day and joined the elder outside. The two men walked for a while in silence. Then the elder asked nervously: "You will haf seen Sandy, Maister Mac-a-ferson?"

"I have seen a man who has lost his self-respect," said the minister with a shudder, "and God forbid that I should ever see another.

The elder said no more, but he put his sympathy in a handclasp as they parted.

Every day the minister visited Sandy MacIntosh, until Sandy's death, which occurred some weeks later, and was hastened, as the doctor said, by immoderate drinking. If that were so, and he sought relief in drinking, it was certain that he did not find it, for not once was his brain stupefied into forgetfulness. The heartsick minister toiled as he had never toiled before to win the man back to his self-respect, to give him some hope, all without avail. Sandy spoke little, and seldom at all to the purpose.

And

"She will haf disgraced the kirk," was all that he would ever say. to all the minister's pleading of extenuating circumstances, of infinite mercy and goodness, of hope for everyone, of the experience of the thief upon the cross, he had but the

one answer:

"She will haf disgraced the kirk." That was all, save once, when he was dying, and the minister hung above him with a prayer upon his lips, Sandy's haunted eyes opened and his gaunt hand pointed somewhere into. the darkness

"Without are drunkards!" he said, and fell back dead.

ROSSING the market-place goes Police-Inspector Ochoumilov. Wrapped in his cloak of military cut, he might be officialism personified. And to increase the illusion, behind him strides a constable carrying a sieve piled high with confiscated gooseberries. Not a soul is to be seen in the Square; even the beggars have vanished; and the open doors of shops and taverns gape emptily at the sunshine.

"You infamous cur! So you bite -do you?"

At the sudden outcry, Ochoumilov and the constable wheel sharply.

"Hi, there! Catch him! Catch him! Don't let him escape! Yah!" And there follows a yelping, as of an animal in pain. Then, limping pitifully on three legs, a dog dashes out from Pichoogin's wood-yard. A headlong figure follows, cotton blouse and waistcoat flying in the chase. In his mad haste this person stumbles, and, measuring his length on the ground, grabs the dog by a hind leg. Again there is a yelping and a confusion of cries. Sleepy faces are thrust from the shops, and, as if by magic, a crowd springs into being and hurries towards the wood-yard.

Seemingly a disturbance, your Honour," remarks the discreet constable.

Close to the gate of the yard the man in the unbuttoned waistcoat is

showing his hand. One of the fingers is bloody. Short shrift for the dog if he gets his way! Already the finger is waving, like a flag of victory, as he advertises his wrongs to the people. The Inspector recognises him as Henkin, the goldsmith.

Meanwhile, in the middle of the crowd, trembling pitifully, and offering a conciliatory paw to anyone who will shake it, sits the author of all the commotion, a white borzoi puppy with a

very pointed nose, and a yellow mark on his back. His eyes are full of terror.

"What's all this?" demands Ochoumilov, shouldering his way towards the dog.

"Look at my hand, your Honour," begins the goldsmith, nearly inarticulate with rage. "I went I touched nothing, your Honour-to Mitrii Mitrievitch for some wood, and that monster set on me! Look at my finger! Mine is a delicate trade, and my hand will be useless for a week. It is not the law, your Honour, for every cur to bite."

“H'm—” remarks the inspector, his eyebrows moving unpleasantly. "Whose is the dog? It's high time to draw attention to this sort of thing! The owner of this dog has infringed a by-law, and must learn what the law means by 'roving cattle.' I fancy he'll find the term includes his mongrels! Eldirin "-turning to the con stable-summons the owner, and kill the dog at once-it's mad. Whose is the dog, I ask?"

"General Zigalov's," said a voice in the crowd.

"General Zigalov's?

H'm. Eldirin, take my cloak-it has got abominably hot suddenly! Now, there is just one thing I cannot understand, Henkin." And the Inspector turned sharply upon him. "How could that little dog reach your finger? Such a puppy would never attack a great hulking fellow like you! You tore your hand on a nail, and then thought to wreak your annoyance on the dog. I know you!"

"Your Honour, it happened in this way," said a bystander, coming forward. "He put his cigarette in the puppy's face, for a joke. He's a bit of a wag, yer Honour! And the dog snapped at him. There's the whole story in a nutshell!"

"You've invented it-you liar! His

If

"I believe you. The General's dogs, at least, are thoroughbred; while this beast is a mongrel-no coat—no manners! The General wouldn't keep such a cur; they're crazy to suppose it! this had happened in Petersburg, or Moscow, the beast would have been destroyed by now-and without consulting anybody! However, since you have been injured, Henkin, I shall not allow the affair to stop here. One must set things to rights. It is high time="

It's no

"put down your idiotic hand. use showing your finger. Your own fault entirely."

At that moment, the General's cook was seen coming round the corner. The Inspector looked relieved. "I'll ask him. Wait a minute, Eldirin. Hi, Drobar! Do you know this dog? Is he yours?"

"Ours? What an idea! Never had such a creature in our kennels."

"Then that settles it. The dog is a stray mongrel. No need to waste more words. If I say he is mongrel, he is a mongrel! Take and kill him at once, Eldirin. There, that's all." And Ochoumilov turned on his heel.

"The dog is not ours," continued Drobar, as if there had been no interruption. "He belongs to the General's brother, Vladimir Ivanovitch, who came the other day. The General doesn't keep borzois, but his brother has a fancy for them."

"Heavens! Vladimir Ivanovitch here!" exclaimed Ochoumilov, his face aglow with pleasure. "Has he come to stay?"

"On a visit, yes."

"And to think I never knew! I'm glad no harm came to his puppy. Take him, Drobar. He's right enough -a little playful, that's all. He bit that fellow's finger-showed his sense, as well as his teeth, eh? Ha! ha! ha! Why are you trembling so, puppy? I declare the rascal's quite cross. Good dog, then! Hi! good dog!"

Drobar called to the borzoi, and the two went out of the wood-yard. The crowd, having nothing to do, began to chaff the goldsmith. And Ochoumilov, followed by the constable, continued his walk across the marketplace.