fireplace in it. Philip was glad to hide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himself shut in by the ancient one.

But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seated himself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a few cracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless aware of a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When, presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, he discovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on a level with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedly withdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the opposite side of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, was another pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but very beautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of this young girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered in their glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of that high pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, and what interest she had in Dandy Chater.

Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to his feet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in the direction of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fell on another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thought with something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pair of eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; and they were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was not so tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed a glance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was one wholly of defiance.

“The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish I knew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at the bottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”

The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance, of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew and its single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice, on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men so stubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from the pulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.

The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infinite astonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, the whispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.

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