we first saw him in
Barbie, four years ago now.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gibson," he panted. "Is it private that ye wanted to
see me on?"

"Verra private," said the sandy smiler.

"We'll go through to the house, then," said Wilson, and ushered his
guest through the back premises. But the voice of his wife recalled him.
"James!" she cried. "Here for a minute just," and he turned to her,
leaving Gibson in the yard.

"Be careful what you're doing," she whispered in his ear. "It wasna for
nothing they christened Gibson 'Cunning Johnny.' Keep the dirt out your
een."

"There's no fear of that," he assured her pompously. It was a grand
thing to have a wife like that, but her advice nettled him now just a
little, because it seemed to imply a doubt of his efficiency--and that
was quite onnecessar. He knew what he was doing. They would need to rise
very early that got the better o' a man like him!

"You'll take a dram?" said Wilson, when they reached a pokey little room
where the most conspicuous and dreary object was a large bare flowerpot
of red earthenware, on a green woollen mat, in the middle of a round
table. Out of the flowerpot rose gauntly a three-sticked frame, up which
two lonely stalks of a climbing plant tried to scramble, but failed
miserably to reach the top. The round little rickety table with the
family album on one corner (placed at what Mrs. Wilson considered a
beautiful artistic angle to the window), the tawdry cloth, the green
mat, the shiny horsehair sofa, and the stuffy atmosphere, were all in
perfect harmony of ugliness. A sampler on the wall informed the world
that there was no place like home.

Wilson pushed the flowerpot to one side, and "You'll take a dram?" he
said blithely.

"Oh ay," said Gibson with a grin; "I never refuse drink when I'm offered
it for nothing."

"Hi! hi!" laughed Wilson at the little joke, and produced a cut decanter
and a pair of glasses. He filled the glasses so brimming full that the
drink ran over on the table.

"Canny, man, for God's sake canny!" cried Gibson, starting forward in
alarm. "Don't ye see you're spilling the mercies?" He stooped his lips
to the rim of his glass, and sipped, lest a drop of Scotia's nectar
should escape him.

They faced each other, sitting. "Here's pith!" said Gibson. "Pith!" said
the other in chorus, and they nodded to each other in amity, primed
glasses up and ready. And then it was eyes heavenward and the little
finger uppermost.

Gi