said Mr. Blake. "What was it?"

"'Div ye think,' says I, lookin' fair at him, 'div ye think I tak Dauvit
for a paittern?'--and it did for him. 'I'll hae to be gaein',' says he,
'I hae a funeral.' 'Aye,' says I, 'ye'd better hae a funeral'--an' we
haena spoken to ane anither since."

"That's a pity," said Mr. Blake, "it seems too bad that the soul's
interests should suffer because of a matter of that kind. Of course," he
continued, "I don't say that a man may not be religious because he
doesn't go to church. Men may scorn the bridge and still get across the
river, but they would have got along better by the bridge."

"I dinna ken aboot the brig," said the other, "that isna to the
point,"--for he was not of a metaphorical turn of mind--"but I've nae
doot aboot bein' religious. A man in my walk o' life, in my business, ye
ken, canna weel help bein' religious. He's the same as the Apostle
Paul."

"What?" said Mr. Blake, "are you a tent-maker?"

"Na, na, certainly not; there's nane o' them nowadays. A man in my
callin' doesna _do_ the same as Paul, but he can _say_ the same, ye see.
I can say wi' Paul: 'Death to me is great gain'--I'm an undertaker, ye
ken."

"An undertaker," exclaimed his listener, unconsciously pushing back his
chair, shocked at the gruesome humour. Besides, the man was looking at
him with something like a professional eye, as if making an estimate of
time, and space.

"Aye," responded he of the apostolic claim, "I'm an undertaker--but
times is dull. I was an undertaker ten year in Lockerby, but I left
there lang syne. I had ae fine customer, the bailie; he had eleven o' a
family. But I lost his trade. The bailie was sick--an' my laddie, wee
Sandy, was aye plaguin' me for a sled. I tell't him I'd get him ane when
I had mair siller. Weel, wee Sandy was aye rinnin' ower to the hoose an'
askin' aboot the bailie. 'Twas nat'ral eneuch; the laddie meant nae
harm, but he wanted his sled afore the snaw was gone. Ony way, they tuk
offense."

"Did he get his sled?" asked Mr. Blake mechanically, staring at the man.

"Na, poor wee Sandy never got his sled. I had juist ae ither customer ye
micht ca' guid. He was deein' o' consumption, an' I took guid care o'
Sandy's sympathy. There was no askin' aboot him, mind ye. But there was
a mean man i' the business, wha was never meant to be an undertaker. His
name was Creighton, Tom Creighton, an' what dae ye think Tom did, to get
his trade?"

"I don't know," said