e's, an', though it was a gey
job, we manished to get hame. An' gled I was when I saw Sandy's yallow
nose again, I can tell ye, for I was shure syne I wud dee at hame amon'
my nain bed-claes.

"The Lord preserve's a'!" says Mysie when she saw Sandy. "What i' the
name o' peace has come ower you? I'll need to go! I've Leeb's bairns
at hame, you see, an' this is the collery or the renderpest or
something come ower you twa, an' I'm feard o' smittin' the bairns, or I
wudda bidden. As shure's I live, I'll need to go!" an' she vanisht oot
at the door wi' a face as white's kauk.

"I think I'll rin for the doctor, Bawbie," said Mistress Konawee. She
kent aboot Sandy's fairntickles afore, of coorse, an' Sandy's yallow
fizog didna pet her aboot.

"Juist hover a blink," says I, "till I see if I come to mysel'."

I sat doon in the easy-chair, an' Sandy was in a terriple wey aboot me.
He cudna speak a wird, but juist keepit sayin', "O dinna dee, Bawbie,
dinna dee; your denner's ready!" He lookit me up an' doon, an' then
booin' doon till he was for a' the world juist like a half-steekit
knife he roars oot, "What's ado wi' your feet, Bawbie? Look at them!
Your taes are turned oot juist like the hands o' the tnock, at twenty
meenits past echt. You're shurely no genna tak' a parrylattick stroke."

I lookit doon, an' shure eneuch my taes were turned oot an' curled
roond like's they were gaen awa' back ahent my heels. Mistress Kenawee
got doon on her knees aside me.

"Preserve's a', Bawbie," says she; "you have your buits on the wrang
feet! Nae winder than your knees were knokin' thegither wi' thae auld
worn-doon heels turned inside, an' your taes turned oot."

But I'll better no' say nae mair aboot it. I was that angry; and
Mistress Kenawee, the bissam, was like to tnet hersel' lauchin'; but; I
ashure ye, I never got sik a fleg in my life--an' sik simple dune too,
mind ye.

XI.

SANDY STANDS "EMPIRE" AT A CRICKET MATCH.

I was sittin' on Friday nicht, readin' awa' at some bits o' the
_Herald_ I didna get at on Fursday, when the shop door gaed clash back
to the wa', an' in hammered fower or five bits o' loons a' at the heels
o' ane anither. When they saw me, they stood stock still, dichtin'
their noses wi' their jeckit sleeves, an' glowerin' like as mony
fleggit sheep.

"Go on, Jock," says ane o' them, gien anither ane a shuve forrit.
"You're the captain; speak you."

Jock gae a host, an' syne layin' his