did not stop drinking till
he sank into a drunken stupor and had to be carried to bed. His little
French-Canadian wife could not understand the change that had come over
her husband.

'He's like one bear,' she confided to Mrs. Mavor, to whom she was
showing her baby of a year old. 'He's not kees me one tam dis day.
He's mos hawful bad, he's not even look at de baby.' And this seemed
sufficient proof that something was seriously wrong; for she went on to
say--

'He's tink more for dat leel baby dan for de whole worl'; he's tink more
for dat baby dan for me,' but she shrugged her pretty little shoulders
in deprecation of her speech.

'You must pray for him,' said Mrs. Mavor, 'and all will come right.'

'Ah! madame!' she replied earnestly, 'every day, every day, I pray la
sainte Vierge et tous les saints for him.'

'You must pray to your Father in heaven for him.'

'Ah! oui! I weel pray,' and Mrs. Mavor sent her away bright with smiles,
and with new hope and courage in her heart.

She had very soon need of all her courage, for at the week's end her
baby fell dangerously ill. Slavin's anxiety and fear were not relieved
much by the reports the men brought him from time to time of Geordie's
ominous forebodings; for Geordie had no doubt but that the Avenger of
Blood was hot upon Slavin's trail; and as the sickness grew, he became
confirmed in this conviction. While he could not be said to find
satisfaction in Slavin's impending affliction, he could hardly hide his
complacency in the promptness of Providence in vindicating his theory of
retribution.

But Geordie's complacency was somewhat rudely shocked by Mr. Craig's
answer to his theory one day.

'You read your Bible to little profit, it seems to me, Geordie: or,
perhaps, you have never read the Master's teaching about the Tower of
Siloam. Better read that and take that warning to yourself.'

Geordie gazed after Mr. Craig as he turned away, and muttered--

'The toor o' Siloam, is it? Ay, a' ken fine aboot the toor o' Siloam,
and aboot the toor o' Babel as weel; an' a've read, too, about the
blaspheemious Herod, an' sic like. Man, but he's a hot-heided laddie,
and lacks discreemeenation.'

'What about Herod, Geordie?' I asked.

'Aboot Herod?'--with a strong tinge of contempt in his tone. 'Aboot
Herod? Man, hae ye no' read in the Screepturs aboot Herod an' the
wur-r-ms in the wame o' him?'

'Oh yes, I see,' I hastened to answer.

'Ay, a fule can see what's