otional nature untuned, discord itself had ceased to
jar.

CHAPTER LVII.

A HIDING-PLACE FROM THE WIND.

Gibbie found everything at the Auld Hoose in complete order for his
reception: Mistress Croale had been very diligent, and promised well
for a housekeeper--looked well, too, in her black satin and lace,
with her complexion, she justly flattered herself, not a little
improved. She had a good meal ready for him, with every adjunct in
proper style, during the preparation of which she had revelled in
the thought that some day, when she had quite established her
fitness for her new position, Sir Gibbie would certainly invite the
minister and his lady to dine with him, when she, whom they were too
proud to ask to partake of their cockie-leekie, would show them she
knew both what a dinner ought to be, and how to preside at it; and
the soup it should be cockie-leekie.

Everything went comfortably. Gibbie was so well up in mathematics,
thanks to Mr. Sclater, that, doing all requisite for honourable
studentship, but having no desire to distinguish himself, he had
plenty of time for more important duty. Now that he was by himself,
as if old habit had returned in the shape of new passion, he roamed
the streets every night. His custom was this: after dinner, which
he had when he came from college, about half-past four, he lay down,
fell asleep in a moment, as he always did, and slept till half-past
six; then he had tea, and after that, studied--not dawdled over his
books, till ten o'clock, when he took his Greek Testament. At
eleven he went out, seldom finally returning before half-past one,
sometimes not for an hour longer--during which time Mistress Croale
was in readiness to receive any guest he might bring home.

The history of the special endeavour he had now commenced does not
belong to my narrative. Some nights, many nights together, he would
not meet a single wanderer; occasionally he would meet two or three
in the same night. When he found one, he would stand regarding him
until he spoke. If the man was drunk he would leave him: such were
not those for whom he could now do most. If he was sober, he made
him signs of invitation. If he would not go with him, he left him,
but kept him in view, and tried him again. If still he would not,
he gave him a piece of bread, and left him. If he called, he
stopped, and by circuitous ways brought him to the little house at
the back. It was purposely quite