er.

The groaning landlord was soon removed by the loving hands of his wife
and the hostler; and as I convoyed Geordie out past their family
sitting-room, tenderly so called, the phonograph breathed out the last
expiring strains of "Wull ye no' come back again?" which the aforesaid
landlord had selected in preference to Geordie's pious choice.

Measures for the sufferer's relief had been swift; the air was already
rich with the fumes of high wines, the versatile healer of internal
griefs and external wounds alike.

When Geordie and I were well upon the street a new difficulty presented
itself.

"It's a sair shock, an' it'll kill the wife," I heard him muttering
beneath his breath.

This gave me some little hope, for I detected in it the beauty of
penitence.

"Your wife will forgive you, Geordie," I began; "and if this will only
teach----"

But he stopped me; his face showed that he had been sorely
misunderstood.

"Forgie me--forgie me! It's no' me she'll hae till forgie. Are ye no'
the minister o' St. Cuthbert's? Ah, ye canna deny that. I ken that fine.
I kent ye as sune as ye cam' slippin' ben the taivern. It'll fair kill
the wife."

"What are you talking about?" I said testily.

"To think I wad live to see my ain minister slippin' by intil a taivern
at sic a time o' nicht," he groaned despondingly.

Then he turned upon me, his voice full of sad reproof: "I'm no' what I
micht be masel', but I dinna mak' no profession; but to think I'd catch
my ain minister hangin' roon' a taivern at this time o' nicht. It'll
kill the wife. She thocht the warld o' ye."

What the man was driving at was slowly borne in upon me.

"But you do not understand, Geordie," I began.

He stopped me again: "Dinna mak' it waur wi' yir explanations. I
un'erstaun' fine. I un'erstaun' noo why they ca' ye a feenished
preacher--ye're damn weel feenished for me an' Betsy. An' gin I tell hoo
I fun' ye oot (which I'm no' sayin' I'll dae), ilka sate i' the kirk
will be empty the comin' Sabbath day. Ye're a wolf in sheep's claes, an'
I'm sair at hairt the nicht."

I saw the uselessness of any attempt to enlighten him, for he was
evidently sincere in his illusion, and the spirit of real grief could be
detected, mingling with another which poisoned the air at every breath.
Whereupon I left him to himself as we walked along, Geordie swaying
gently, overcome by the experiences of the departed hour.

"It maun hae a fearfu' haud o' ye when ye