her was
Clerk, to the great advantage of the Kirk of Scotland in these parts.

[My wife, Mary M'Quhirr, wishes me to add to all whom it may concern,
"Go thou and do likewise."]

V

JOHN

_Shall we, then, make our harvest of the sea
And garner memories, which we surely deem
May light these hearts of ours on darksome days,
When loneliness hath power, and no kind beam
Lightens about our feet the perilous ways?
For of Eternity
This present hour is all we call our own,
And Memory's edge is dull'd, even as it brings
The sunny swathes of unforgotten springs,
And sweeps them to our feet like grass long mown_.

Fergus Morrison was in his old town for a few days. He was staying with
the aunt who had brought him up, schooled him, marshalled him to the
Burgher Kirk like a decent Renfrewshire callant, and finally had sent
him off to Glasgow to get colleged. Colleged he was in due course, and
had long been placed in an influential church in the city. On the
afternoon of the Saturday he was dreamily soliloquising after the plain
midday meal to which his aunt adhered.

Old things had been passing before him during these last days, and the
coming of the smart church-officer for the psalms and hymns for the
morrow awoke in the Reverend Fergus Morrison a desire to know about
"John," the wonderful beadle of old times, to whose enlarged duties his
late spruce visitor had succeeded. He smiled fitfully as he brooded
over old things and old times; and when his aunt came in from washing up
the dinner dishes, he asked concerning "John." He was surprised to find
that, though frail, bent double with rheumatism, and nearly blind, he
was still alive; and living, too, as of yore, in the same old cottage
with its gable-end to the street. The Glasgow minister took his staff
and went out to visit him. As he passed down the street he noted every
change with a start, marvelling chiefly at the lowness of the houses and
the shrunken dimensions of the Town Hall, once to him the noblest
building on earth.

When he got to John's cottage the bairns were playing at ball against
the end of it, just as they had done thirty years ago. One little urchin
was making a squeaking noise with a wet finger on the window-pane,
inside which were displayed a few crossed pipes and fly-blown
sweatmeats. As the city minister stood looking about him, a bent yet
awe-inspiring form came hirpling to the do