at silent looking into the blazing fire.

"Ay," continued the old lady, "but there are the bright spots tae, an'
it's ill tae glower at a cauld hearth stone." Maitland glanced quickly
at the shrewd and kindly face. What did she know about him and his life
and his "cauld hearth stone"? So he said nothing but waited. Suddenly
she swerved to another theme.

"Malcolm," she said, "have ye secured the tickets for the match?"

"Aw, mither, now it is the terrible auld sport ye are. She drags me out
to all these things." His eyes twinkled at Maitland. "I can't find time
for any study."

"Hoots ye and ye're study. A doot a rale heartening scramble on the ice
wad dae ye mair guid than an oor wi' yon godless Jew buddie."

"She means Marx, of course," said McNish, in answer to Maitland's look
of perplexity. "She has no use for him."

"But the tickets, Malcolm," insisted his mother.

"Well, mither, A'll confess I clean forgot them. Ye see," he hurried to
say, "A was that fashed over yon Committee maitter--"

"Committee maitter!" exclaimed the old lady indignantly. "Did I not
tell ye no to heed yon screamin' English cratur wi' his revolutionary
nonsense?"

"She means Simmons," interjected Malcolm with a little smile. "He means
well, mither, but A'm vexed aboot the tickets."

"Mrs. McNish," said Maitland, "I happen to have two tickets that I can
let you have." For an instant she hesitated.

"We can find a way in, I think, Mr. Maitland," said Malcolm,
forestalling his mother's answer. But with simple dignity his mother put
him aside.

"A shall be verra pleased indeed to have the tickets, provided you can
spare them, Mr. Maitland. Never mind, noo, Malcolm. A ken well
what ye're thinkin'. He's gey independent and his mind is on thae
revolutionary buddies o' his. A'm aye tellin' him this is nae land for
yon nonsense. Gin we were in Rooshie, or Germany whaur the people have
lived in black slavery or even in the auld land whaur the fowk are
haudden doon wi' generations o' class bondage, there might be a chance
for a revolutionary. But what can ye dae in a land whaur the fowk are
aye climbin' through ither, noo up, noo down, noo maister, noo man?
Ye canna make Canadians revolutionaries. They are a' on the road to be
maisters. Malcolm is a clever loon but he has a wee bee in his bonnet."
The old lady smiled quizzically at her big, serious-faced son.

"Noo, mither, ye're just talkin' havers," he said. "My mother is as
great a So