finer o' them_"; but it seemed that no one else had been
favoured with a like success. All other gardeners, in fact, were mere
foils to his own superior attainments; and he would recount, with
perfect soberness of voice and visage, how so-and-so had wondered, and
such another could scarcely give credit to his eyes. Nor was it with his
rivals only that he parted praise and blame. If you remarked how well a
plant was looking, he would gravely touch his hat and thank you with
solemn unction; all credit in the matter falling to him. If, on the
other hand, you called his attention to some back-going vegetable, he
would quote Scripture: "_Paul may plant, and Apollos may water_"; all
blame being left to Providence, on the score of deficient rain or
untimely frosts.

There was one thing in the garden that shared his preference with his
favourite cabbages and rhubarb, and that other was the bee-hive. Their
sound, their industry, perhaps their sweet product also, had taken hold
of his imagination and heart, whether by way of memory or no I cannot
say, although perhaps the bees too were linked to him by some
recollection of Manor braes and his country childhood. Nevertheless, he
was too chary of his personal safety or (let me rather say) his personal
dignity to mingle in any active office towards them. But he could stand
by while one of the contemned rivals did the work for him, and protest
that it was quite safe in spite of his own considerate distance and the
cries of the distressed assistant. In regard to bees, he was rather a
man of word than deed, and some of his most striking sentences had the
bees for text. "_They are indeed wonderfu' creatures, mem_," he said
once. "_They just mind me o' what the Queen of Sheba said to
Solomon--and I think she said it wi' a sigh,--'The half of it hath not
been told unto me.'_"

As far as the Bible goes, he was deeply read. Like the old Covenanters,
of whom he was the worthy representative, his mouth was full of sacred
quotations; it was the book that he had studied most and thought upon
most deeply. To many people in his station the Bible, and perhaps Burns,
are the only books of any vital literary merit that they read, feeding
themselves, for the rest, on the draff of country newspapers, and the
very instructive but not very palatable pabulum of some cheap
educational series. This was Robert's position. All day long he had
dreamed of the Hebrew stories, and his head had been full of Hebr