randy quean deems him a genius, nae less. There's a vein o' verse in yon limmer, else she wuldnae hae ca'd her bairn Pope."

"After the poet?"

"Tush, laddie. Pope, the wee crooked thing, wes nae a poet. Gi' me glorious Robby Bur-rns. Aye, aye, the besom o' a landleddy hes a glimmerin' o' the divine. 'Tis queer where the speeritual spark, as ye micht say, taks up its abode. I hae a wee bit glimmer maesel, an' I thocht ye hed it also, Herries. But ye've come doon, sadly, puir saul,--eh,--the looks of ye."

"Drink has nothing to do with them at least," retorted Herries nettled, "while to look at you,----"

"Eh, an' what ails me, laddie?"

"Drink! Gin, whisky and suchlike. Ten years ago, you had me as a pupil in Edinburgh, and although a minister without a church, you were at least respectable. Now----"

"Ye may weel say't, laddie. Drink's the curse o' a' sons o' Adaam. I wes a stickit meenister, foreby, and didnae wag ma pow in a pu-pit, mair's the peety. Aye, aye," he sighed, "whusky's the deil's broth, I'm theenking."

"How did you fall so low?" Angus asked his old preceptor.

"Whusky! Whusky!" said the old reprobate, "tho' I've tacken to gin as cheaper. But 'tis weary wark at times, for gin's nae sa quick as it micht be, in bringing oot the glorious points o' a mon."

"It doesn't make you drunk enough, I suppose you mean?"

"Joost sae. Ye micht pit it yon way."

"What a mercy you never married, Gowrie."

"Ca' me Meester Gowrie, be decent to your elders, laddie. Marrit, is it?" He chuckled again, and cast a strange glance at Herries from out his inflamed eyes. "Ou aye, marrit. Weel,--weel,--we're a' son's o Adaam, ye ken."

"Then are you----?"

"Hold your tongue, sir," interrupted Gowrie, in fierce English, "respect the secret of a gentleman. You an' me's met in a queer gait," he pursued in the homely Scotch, "maister an' pupil, an' baith doon on oor hunkers, as ye may say. It's a waefu' warld, I'm theenking."

Herries made no direct reply, being 

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