wheen clouts I was sorting out,"
she faltered. "No, no, dear, there's noathing wrong wi' me."

"There's one sticking in your blouse," said he, and pointed to her slack
breast.

She glanced nervously down and pushed it farther in.

"I dare say I put it there when I wasna thinking," she explained.

But she eyed him furtively to see if he were still looking.

CHAPTER XX.

There is nothing worse for a weakling than a small success. The strong
man tosses it beneath his feet as a step to rise higher on. He squeezes
it into its proper place as a layer in the life he is building. If his
memory dwells on it for a moment, it is only because of its valuable
results, not because in itself it is a theme for vanity. And if he be
higher than strong he values not it, but the exercise of getting it;
viewing his actual achievement, he is apt to reflect, "Is this pitiful
thing, then, all that I toiled for?" Finer natures often experience a
keen depression and sense of littleness in the pause that follows a
success. But the fool is so swollen by thought of his victory that he is
unfit for all healthy work till somebody jags him and lets the gas out.
He never forgets the great thing he fancies he did thirty years ago, and
expects the world never to forget it either. The more of a weakling he
is, and the more incapable of repeating his former triumph, the more he
thinks of it; and the more he thinks of it the more it satisfies his
meagre soul, and prevents him essaying another brave venture in the
world. His petty achievement ruins him. The memory of it never leaves
him, but swells to a huge balloon that lifts him off his feet and
carries him heavens-high--till it lands him on a dunghill. Even from
that proud eminence he oft cock-a-doodles his former triumph to the
world. "Man, you wouldn't think to see me here that I once held a great
position. Thirty year back I did a big thing. It was like this, ye see."
And then follows a recital of his faded glories--generally ending with
a hint that a drink would be very acceptable.

Even such a weakling was young Gourlay. His success in Edinburgh, petty
as it was, turned his head, and became one of the many causes working to
destroy him. All that summer at Barbie he swaggered and drank on the
strength of it.

On the morning after his return he clothed himself in fine raiment (he
was always well dressed till the end came), and sallied forth to
dominate the town. As he swaggered past th