t you."

Then James walked towards the table. There were wax lights burning on
it, and he held it in the flame and watched it slowly consume away to
ashes. The silence was so intense that they heard each other
breathing, and the expression on James' face was so rapt and noble
that even Donald's stately beauty was for the moment less attractive.
Then he walked towards Donald and said,

"Now give me your hand, McFarlane, and I'll take it gladly."

And that was a handclasp that meant to both men what no words could
have expressed.

"Farewell, McFarlane; our ways in this world lie far apart; but when
we come to die it will comfort both of us to remember this meeting.
God be with you!"

"And with you also, James. Farewell."

Then James went back to his store and his shadowed household life. And
people said he looked happier than ever he had done, and pitied him
for his sick wife, and supposed he felt it a happy release to be rid
of her. So wrongly does the world, which knows nothing of our real
life, judge us.

You may see his gravestone in Glasgow Necropolis to-day, and people
will tell you that he was a great philanthropist, and gave away a
noble fortune to the sick and the ignorant; and you will probably
wonder to see only beneath his name the solemn text, "Vengeance is
mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."

Facing His Enemy.

FACING HIS ENEMY.

CHAPTER I.

Forty years ago there stood in the lower part of the city of Glasgow a
large, plain building which was to hundreds of very intelligent
Scotchmen almost sacred ground. It stood among warehouses and
factories, and in a very unfashionable quarter; but for all that, it
was Dr. William Morrison's kirk. And Dr. Morrison was in every respect
a remarkable man--a Scotchman with the old Hebrew fervor and
sublimity, who accepted the extremest tenets of his creed with a deep
religious faith, and scorned to trim or moderate them in order to suit
what he called "a sinfu' latitudinarian age."

Such a man readily found among the solid burghers of Glasgow a large
"following" of a very serious kind, douce, dour men, whose
strongly-marked features looked as if they had been chiselled out of
their native granite--men who settled themselves with a grave kind of
enjoyment to listen to a full hour's sermon, and who watched every
point their minister made with a critical acumen that seemed more
fitting to a synod of divines than a congregation of weavers and
t