nathan noted my movements. 'can i help ye, maister weelum, or is there ocht i can do to mak' ye comfortable? betty'll no' be lang till she's wi' ye. she's busy the noo, an' she sent me up to keep ye cheery till her wark was dune.'

i looked at him and saw he was quite serious, so i concluded that, decent, well-meaning man though he was, he was no humorist.

'ay, nathan,' i said, after i had thought over the situation, 'i have no doubt your intentions are all right. invalids ought to be kept cheery, as you call it; but'——

'ye admit, then, that ye are an invalid, maister weelum?'

'well, nathan, i'm afraid i must admit that.'

'ay, man—imphm! so far, so guid. ye ken, sir, there are some fouk that'll no' gi'e in when ocht ails them. there was cairneyheid, for instance. did ye ken him? no—imphm! it doesna maitter. weel, cairnie, as we ca'd him for short, had farmed on the alton rig a' his days. the rig lies high, an there's aye plenty o' guid fresh air up yonder, and cairnie never in his life had had even a sair heid. but, dod, sir, ae day, after his denner, he quately slippit to the flaer, an' couldna get up again. weel, he sat there till aboot hauf six withoot sayin' a single damn, an' if ye kenned cairnie an' his weys ye could understaun that that gied his women-fouk a glauff. weel, suddenly he lookit up an' asked for a gless o' whisky, an' they thocht frae that that he was better. he did kind o' revive after his dram, an' wi' nae sma' trauchle they got him to his bed. next mornin' he was dreich o' risin', an' when he got to his breakfast he couldna eat, an' still he didna sweer, so they sent awa' doon for the doctor. weel, whenever the doctor cam' an' saw him he ordered him at aince to be put in his bed. "bed!" said cairnie. "bed in the guid daylicht! i think i see mysel'! i never in a' my life gaed to my bed except at nicht an' to sleep, an' i'm no' gaun the noo;" an' he got up oot o' his chair in spite o' them. "i'm awa' up to the high field to see hoo they're gettin' on wi' the turnip-shawin'," he said; an' withoot dug or stick he oot o' the hoose. hooever he got the length o' the field guidness only kens, but there he got. "hurry on, men," he said; "dinna be feart to bend your backs in guid shawin' weather like this. the pits'll a' be ready afore ye're ready for them;" an' he lifted a knife to gi'e them a haun. he pu'd a turnip, an' was juist gaun to whang off the shaw, when doon he drappit in the middle o' the drill as deid as abel.'

nathan relit his pipe, which had gone out during the narrative. 'ay,' he continued, as he puffed audibly, 'it was a very big funeral, was cairnie's. he was buried in dalgarnock—a damp, douth place to lie in, in my estimation. no' that it maitters muckle, i daur say; but still'——

'whae's this ye're on, nathan?' said betty, who had entered the room unobserved.

'oh, naebody parteeklar, betty. i'm juist ca'in' the crack as ye telt me, an' keepin' maister weelum here cheery till ye come up;' and he rose, with a sigh of relief, from his chair, sidled toward the door, and went cautiously downstairs.

when i heard him safely round the 'sherp' turn on the staircase i looked at the sonsie, kindly face of my old nurse. 'oh my dear betty, i am glad to see you!' i said with fervour.

'hoo's that, noo, maister weelum?' and she gave a wee bit pleased laugh. 'ha'e ye been missin' me? has nathan no' been ca'in' the crack?'

'yes, betty, i have been missing you, and nathan has been ca'in' the crack; but, betty'—and i lowered my voice—'he's been in kirk-yards all the time.'

'ah, is that so?' she sympathetically asked. 'i'm sorry, noo, to ken that. he must ha'e been workin' among leaf-mould the day.'

'he was, betty; he told me so.'

'that accoonts for it, maister weelum. nathan's awfu' queer that wey; but, puir falla, he canna help it; an' then ye ken he means sae terribly weel. i'm awfu' sorry, though, if his crack has depressed ye. ye're juist a wee bittie doon i' the mooth the noo, an' ye'll be easily putten aboot; but keep your pecker up, like a guid laddie, an' ye'll soon be better in health an' better in spirits. efter a', an' when a''s considered, ye've a lot to be thankfu' for. mony a yin wad gladly change places wi' ye. it's a gey hard, step-motherly kind o' world this for some folk; but you—weel, i wad say ye've your fu' share o' blessin's.'

i looked keenly toward her while she was speaking. 'you are perfectly right, my dear betty,' i said. 'i have my full share of blessings, and every reason to be thankful and grateful. why, betty, when i think of it, it is a downright sin in me to allow myself to become depressed. it would be much more to the purpose were i to bestir myself and do all i can to help others, whose share of the good things is less, and whose burdens are greater. by the way, betty, were you crying downstairs about half-an-hour ago?'

'no, maister weelum, i was not cryin'.'

'strange,' i said; 'i was sure i heard some one sobbing.'

betty stooped down and poked the smoking coals into glowing flame. then she pulled down my window-blind and drew the curtains together. 'oh, you're quite richt; you dootless did hear greetin', but it wasna me;' and she sat down again and unrolled her knitting, but she didn't ply her needles.

'd'ye mind,' she continued after a long pause,' you an' me speakin' aboot tom jardine the grocer, oor next-door neebor, ye ken?'

'perfectly, betty,' i replied; and at mention of his name i saw in my mind's eye a rain-swept courtyard, a haggard, worried face, and a golden-haired bairn. intuitively i saw more—troubles, big mental troubles which crush the heart and soul out of a man. oh! i hadn't forgotten.

'weel,' she continued, a tremor in her voice, 'it was tom jardine's wife that was greetin' in the kitchen, an' i'm juist dyin' to speak to you, for what she has telt me is lyin' at my he'rt like a stane. are ye weel enough, think ye, to be bothered listenin'?'

'my dear betty, where two old friends like you and tom jardine are concerned, nothing is, or can be, a bother; so proceed, if you please.'

she began to knit, then stopped and counted her stitches, while i filled and lit my pipe.

'little mair than a week bygane,' she began, 'i was in tom's shop for some odds and ends, and when he was servin' me, says he, "mrs hebron, i fully expected to be able to clear off ten pounds of that auld balance this back-end term; but i'm beginning to be feart that'll no' be possible." the balance he referred to, maister weelum, was thirty pounds—half o' the sixty nathan an' me loaned his faither. ye mind i telt ye aboot that?'

i nodded.

'"weel, tom," says i,' she continued, '"that's a' richt. don't fash your mind aboot that." "but, mrs hebron," says he, "i canna help worryin' aboot it. i'm very sorry indeed, an' i trust my no' payin' ye the noo will no' put ye aboot?" "not in the slichtest, tom," says i; "mak' your time my time. i ken what ye've set your face to do, an' i couldna wish ye better luck in your endeavour if ye were my ain bairn." his he'rt filled, puir laddie, an' he thanked me, an' he began to tell me what a bother he had in gettin' in his money. he showed me twae accoonts, yin for fifty pounds an' anither for sixty-five, that have been lyin' oot for mair than a year. it seems that when he was in that big warehoose in glesca he had some experience in the seed line, an', havin' a guid connection wi' groceries among the farmers roond aboot here, it struck him he could, wi' little mair expense, work the twae very profitably thegither. weel, he started to do this, an' in the last twal'months he has selled an awfu' lot. but it appears that seed rins to money quickly, an' the twae accoonts ootlyin', an' aboot which he was so anxious, are, as it were, in this department. the want o' this money has keepit him very ticht, an' he's been aff baith his meat an' his sleep ower the heid o't. weel, to mak' a lang story short, the farmers ha'e baith failed. tom got word yesterday, an', as it's thocht they're gey bad failures, an' very little ootcome expected, he's nearly demented. he has gane ower his books, an' he sees he can pey twenty shillin's in the pound; but, to do that, it means handin' ower his stock, furniture, an' hoose, an' he'll come oot o't wi' nocht but the claes on his back. his wife, puir lassie, was in the nicht tellin' me a' aboot it. it was her ye heard greetin'. she has keepit a stoot he'rt an' a smilin' face to tom; but whenever i put my haun kindly an' mitherly-like on her shooder she broke doon an' grat as if her he'rt was breakin', so i juist took the wee bundle o' spunk an' dejection in my airms, an' she had it a' oot there. tom's gaun up to the lawyer the morn to hand everything ower to him, an' mrs jardine and the bairns are leavin' thornhill on friday to stay wi' her mither till tom gets wark somewhere. noo, maister weelum, i want your advice, an' if ye chairge me sax an' eightpence for it i'll—i'll juist no' pey't;' and a tear-drop broke from her eye as she smiled. she rose from her chair, laid aside her knitting, and coming over to my bedside, she put her hand on my arm. 'i've still got the hunder pounds in the bank which your mother left to me, maister weelum,' she said. 'nathan an' me ha'e saved fifty mair. i never had a bairn o' my ain, an' thae three wee curly-heided angels o' tom's ha'e worked their wey into my he'rt, an' i juist canna let them away. d'ye think the mistress—your mother, i mean—wad ha'e me gi'in' the money in this way?'

i thought for a moment, and betty watched me keenly. 'am i to understand, betty, that you are willing to step into the breach and give tom jardine one hundred and fifty pounds—your all?'

'yes—if ye think it wad be your mother's will.'

'betty, if nathan won't object, will you please put your arms round my neck and give me a kiss?' i said, and i raised my head from my pillow.

the wind has died down, and through the lown midnight air i heard the auld kirk clock strike the hour of twelve. tom jardine has just left my room. he has been with me for almost three hours, and we have had a long smoke together and a grand talk over the times and folks of auld langsyne. betty, as an interested party, favoured us with her company part of the time, for nathan was sleeping the sleep of the just and the tired, and the kitchen fire had long gone out. she was surprised to know that tom's difficulties could be overcome and his affairs straightened out without her little legacy and her hard-earned savings being requisitioned. only tom and i know how this was arranged, and as it is a little matter of personal interest to us, and us alone, the details of the transaction will remain untold.

i am having a run of strange coincidences just now. when betty was locking the door after tom's departure i lifted my book to mark the page where i had left off on nathan's coming into my room, and the paragraph opposite my thumb is as follows: 'i will pass through this world but once. if, therefore, there be any good thing i can do, or any kindness i can show, let me do it now. let me not neglect it or defer it, for i shall never pass this way again.'

i shall read this to betty to-morrow morning, and tell her that, though she may not have the faculty of thus beautifully and poetically expressing a sentiment, she lives it to the letter every day of her life.