eed."

Collie came sadly and limply to the gate and watched them depart. He
was a wise dog, and knew that when his master wore a black suit and
carried two books, dogs were not wanted. The thought never entered his
sagacious canine head to attempt upsetting the established order of
things, but he could not resist a longing whine as he stood looking
through the bars of the gate, his eyes eager, his head on one side, his
whole body a quivering protest against being left at home in the
company of a mere cat.

Duncan turned and said a comforting word in Gaelic, and Collie, though
a Canadian, understood the language of his Highland ancestors, and
trotted meekly back to his despised companion on the water-barrel.

The two old men stepped out leisurely, one on either side of the road,
as was their custom, Duncan with his head bent forward, his eyes fixed
on the far-off horizon, and Andrew with his head thrown back and chest
expanded, his hands clasped behind him, his big stick waving up and
down beneath his coat-tails, except when he whirled it to the front, to
bring it crashing upon the stones in emphasis of some truth.

These walks to the church were their greatest enjoyment. They started
at least an hour earlier than was necessary and had plenty of time to
move along at the gentle lingering pace conducive to friendly talk.
They discussed everything of interest that was in keeping with the day.
Generally their conversation was of the good old times and the great
transformations they had witnessed; and sometimes Duncan Polite hinted
at his ambition for the village, knowing he was sure of his friend's
sympathy.

They passed the first turn in the winding road and came out from behind
a fairy curtain of drooping elm boughs into full view of the river and
the orchards, before either spoke.

Andrew Johnstone showed what his thoughts had been when he broke the
silence.

"Yon Collie o' yours is jist like the young folk o' to-day, Duncan," he
said. "They're aye wantin' away when they should bide at hame."

The old man's chief cross in life was the rising generation, of which
he considered his own son the most exasperating type.

"Aye," he repeated ruminatingly, "he's jist like the young folk, but Ah
misdoot he's got mair sense than some o' them."

But Duncan Polite had unbounded faith in Young Canada. "Oh, indeed
they will be jist lads and lasses, Andra," he said indulgently. "And
they will be good at heart. The Lo