'--

the doctrine o' Charity. Gie him his chance, says Robbie, though he be
a sinner. Mony a mon'd be differ', mony bad'd be gude, gin they had but
their chance. Gie 'em their chance, says he; and I'm wi' him. As 'tis,
ye see me here--a bad man wi' still a streak o' good in him. Gin I'd had
ma chance, aiblins 'twad be--a good man wi' just a spice o' the devil in
him. A' the differ' betune what is and what might ha' bin."

Chapter XXVIII THE DEVIL'S BOWL

HE sat down. In the great hall there was silence, save for a tiny sound
from the gallery like a sob suppressed.

The squire rose hurriedly and left the room. After him, one by one,
trailed the tenants. At length, two only remained--M'Adam, sitting
solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; and, at the
far end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless.

When the last man had left the room the parson rose, and with lips
tight-set strode across the silent hall.

"M'Adam," he said rapidly and almost roughly, "I've listened to
what you've said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hit
hard--but I think you were right. And if I've not done my duty by you as
I ought--and I fear I've not--it's now my duty as God's minister to be
the first to say I'm sorry." And it was evident from his face what an
effort the words cost him.

The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head.

It was the old M'Adam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grin
was crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, as
he looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes.

"Mr. Hornbut, I believe ye thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!" He
leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. "Ye swallered it all
down like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!" Then, stretching
forward:

"Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye."

The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand
and grabbed the scoffer by his coat; then dropped it again and turned
abruptly away.

As he passed through the door a little sneering voice called after him:

"Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England,
can reconcile it to yer conscience to think--though it be but for a
minute--that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? Sir,
ye're a heretic--not to say a heathen!" He sniggered to himself, and his
hand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter.

* * *