riage go over something. They had found him lying beside his hamper,
had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were proceeding to
deliver the latter.

'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and
falling back again.

'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of calling
the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.

'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I thocht ye
was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's basket. Eh
me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray. They a' ca'
me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added the poor boy,
feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth.
Yet ye had as good a right before God to be called Moray as any other
son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Rothie included. Possibly the
trumpet-blowing angels did call him Moray, or some better name.

'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor, this
time repeating the name with emphasis.

'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae
deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll play
some mischeef some day.'

'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken your
arm.'

'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my twa
airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit frien' o'
his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I
canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to haud them gaein', ye
ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added Shargar, beseechingly.

'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good
deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.'

'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first profession
of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.'

During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to appear
from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary' horse, but not
daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No one came. All at
once Shargar knew where he was.

'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an' I'm
muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the morn, or
the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it
gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the stickin' o' 't
thegither again.'

'My poo