o'?" chuckled Postie.

"Whose account is it on?" said Toddle.

"Oh, I don't ken," said Postie carelessly. "He had creditors a' owre the
country. I was ay bringing the big blue envelopes from different airts.
Don't mention this, now," he added, his finger up, his eye significant;
"it shouldn't be known at a-all." He was unwilling that Toddle should
get an unfair start, and spoil his own market for the news.

"_Nut_ me!" Toddle assured him grandly, shaking his head as who should
conduct of that kind a thousand miles off--"_nut_ me, Post! I'll no
breathe it to a living soul."

The post clattered in to Mrs. Gourlay's back door. He had a heavy
under-stamped letter on which there was threepence to pay. He might pick
up an item or two while she was getting him the bawbees.

He knocked, but there was no answer.

"The sluts!" said he, with a humph of disgust; "they're still on their
backs, it seems."

He knocked again. The sound of his knuckles on the door rang out
hollowly, as if there was nothing but emptiness within. While he waited
he turned on the step and looked idly at the courtyard. The inwalled
little place was curiously still.

At last in his impatience he turned the handle, when to his surprise the
door opened, and let him enter.

The leaves of a Bible fluttered in the fresh wind from the door. A large
lamp was burning on the table. Its big yellow flame was unnatural in the
sunshine.

"H'mph!" said Postie, tossing his chin in disgust, "little wonder
everything gaed to wreck and ruin in this house! The slovens have left
the lamp burning the whole nicht lang. But less licht'll serve them now,
I'm thinking!"

A few dead ashes were sticking from the lower bars of the range. Postie
crossed to the fireplace and looked down at the fender. That bright spot
would be the place, now, where auld Gourlay killed himself. The women
must have rubbed it so bright in trying to get out the blood. It was an
uncanny thing to keep in the house that. He stared at the fatal spot
till he grew eerie in the strange stillness.

"Guidwife!" he cried, "Jennet! Don't ye hear?"

They did not hear, it seemed.

"God!" said he, "they sleep sound after all their misfortunes!"

At last--partly in impatience, and partly from a wish to pry--he opened
the door of the parlour. "_Oh, my God!_" he screamed, leaping back, and
with his bulky bag got stuck in the kitchen door, in his desperate hurry
to be gone.

He ran round to the Square in