not, uncle. Please God, and with his help, I will make every
one of them good."

And he meant to do it. He never had felt more certain of himself or
more hopeful for the future than when he went out that morning. He
touched nothing all day, and as the short, dark afternoon closed in,
he went cheerfully towards the mill, with his new check-book in his
pocket and the assurance in his heart that in a few hours he could
stand up among his fellow-citizens free from the stain of debt.

His short speech at the final meeting was so frank and manly, and so
just and honorable to his uncle, that it roused a quiet but deep
enthusiasm. Many of the older men had to wipe the mist from their
glasses, and the heaviest creditor stood up and took David's hand,
saying, "Gentlemen, I hae made money, and I hae saved money, and I hae
had money left me; but I never made, nor saved, nor got money that
gave me such honest pleasure as this siller I hae found in twa honest
men's hearts. Let's hae in the toddy and drink to the twa Callendars."

Alas! alas! how often is it our friends from whom we ought to pray to
be preserved. The man meant kindly; he was a good man, he was a
God-fearing man, and even while he was setting temptation before his
poor, weak brother, he was thinking "that money so clean and fair and
unexpected should be given to some holy purpose." But the best of us
are the slaves of habit and chronic thoughtlessness. All his life he
had signalled every happy event by a libation of toddy; everybody else
did the same; and although he knew David's weakness, he did not think
of it in connection with that wisest of all prayers, "Lead us not into
temptation."

CHAPTER VI.

David ought to have left then, but he did not; and when his uncle's
health was given, and the glass of steaming whiskey stood before him,
he raised it to his lips and drank. It was easy to drink the second
glass and the third, and so on. The men fell into reminiscence and
song, and no one knew how many glasses were mixed; and even when they
stood at the door they turned back for "a thimbleful o' raw speerit to
keep out the cold," for it had begun to snow, and there was a chill,
wet, east wind.

Then they went; and when their forms were lost in the misty gloom, and
even their voices had died away, David turned back to put out the
lights, and lock the mill-door for the last time. Suddenly it struck
him that he had not seen Robert Leslie for an hour at least, a