sbyterian
minister!' 'A minister!' sez I; 'what on earth's a minister doin'
flappin' 'round in a black night-gown an' playin' on a fryin' pan an'
singin' nigger songs? He ought to be home readin' his Bible!' sez I.
'Well,' sez Maria, 'he's goin' to be one anyhow. He's jist in Var-city
yet,' sez she, 'an' I guess it don't matter.' 'Well,' sez I, 'Maria
Cotton, the sooner he gets out o' _Var_-city, or whatever you call it,
the better, for it must be a wicked hole!' Well, we didn't say any
more about him, 'cause we was racin' an tearin' 'round to somethin' new
all the time, an' I clean forgot all about it, until Monday night, I
was goin' home a piece o' the road with Mrs. Fraser, an' Mrs. Basketful
called to me that there was a letter from Maria for me. I was scairt
for a minit, for I thought her an' the children must be all dead, she
writes so seldom. But here if she didn't write to tell me the most
surprisin' news you ever heard, no less than that my gigglin' dancin'
chap with the bangjo was no less than our own minister!"

There was a chorus of startled exclamations. Everyone had guessed the
end of the story, but it was astounding nevertheless when put into
words.

"How I could ha' been so stupid as to forget," continued Miss Cotton,
"I can't imagine. It's a good long time ago, though, an' Maria never
told me his name; but now what do you think o' that, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Dear, dear, ain't it awful!" exclaimed that lady, in genuine distress.
She was of the old school, who considered a minister removed far beyond
the frivolities of ordinary mortals, and was completely bewildered.
"Mebby that was when he was sowin' his wild oats," she said at last,
with some hope.

"Pshaw, mother, ministers ain't supposed to grow wild oats!" cried
Bella piously. She was not as much enamoured of Mr. Egerton as
formerly; for Wee Andra was openly antagonistic to him since his
mysterious disagreement with Donald Neil.

"Don't any o' you girls breathe a word o' this," warned Mrs. Hamilton.
"Andra Johnstone an' some o' the other elders aren't too well pleased
with the poor fellow now."

"My!" sighed Maggie. "Wouldn't I love to tell Splinterin' Andra that
the minister could sing nigger songs and play a banjo. He'd say--'Show
me the sinfu' instrument of Belial an' Ah'll smash it into a thoosand
splinters!'" She accompanied the speech with such an exaggerated
imitation of the old man's vigorous gestures, using the poker in lieu