clear edges of cold, that stung and cut her.
She was a wretched, a low creature! What would her late aunt think
to see her now? What if this cold in her bones were the cold of
coming death? To lie for ages in her coffin, with her mouth full of
earth, longing for whisky! A verse from the end of the New
Testament with "nor drunkards" in it, came to her mind. She had
always had faith, she said to herself; but let them preach what they
liked about salvation by faith, she knew there was nothing but hell
for her if she were to die that night. There was Mistress Murkison
looking out of her shop-door! She was respected as much as ever!
Would Mistress Murkison be saved if she died that night? At least
nobody would want her damned; whereas not a few, and Mr. Sclater in
particular, would think it no fair play if Mistress Croale were not
damned!

They turned into the close of the Auld Hoose o' Galbraith.

"Wee Gibbie's plottin' to lead me to repentance!" she said to
herself. "He's gaein' to shaw me whaur his father dee'd, an' whaur
they leevit in sic meesery--a' throu' the drink I gae 'im, an' the
respectable hoose I keepit to 'tice him till't! He wad hae me
persuaudit to lea' aff the drink! Weel, I'm a heap better nor ance
I was, an' gie't up I wull a'thegither--afore it comes to the last
wi' me."

By this time Gibbie was leading her up the dark stair. At the top,
on a wide hall-like landing, he opened a door. She drew back with
shy amaze. Her first thought was--"That prood madam, the minister's
wife, 'ill be there!" Was affront lying in wait for her again? She
looked round angrily at her conductor. But his smile re-assured
her, and she stepped in.

It was almost a grand room, rich and sombre in colour, old-fashioned
in its somewhat stately furniture. A glorious fire was blazing and
candles were burning. The table was covered with a white cloth, and
laid for two. Gibbie shut the door, placed a chair for Mistress
Croale by the fire, seated himself, took out his tablets, wrote
"Will you be my housekeeper? I will give you L100 a year," and
handed them to her.

"Lord, Sir Gibbie!" she cried, jumping to her feet, "hae ye tint yer
wuts? Hoo wad an auld wife like me luik in sic a place--an' in sic
duds as this? It wad gar Sawtan lauch, an' that he can but seldom."

Gibbie rose, and taking her by the hand, led her to the door of an
adjoining room. It was a bedroom, as grand as the room they had
left, and