he'll be on pay to-morrow again."

At that Mary Ann burst out crying again. "Oh, God bless you, Mr.
Pontiac! it's a kind man you are! May the saints be about your bed!"

With that she ran out to Peter, who still stood by the sleigh; she put
the baby in his arms, and clinging to her husband's shoulder, cried
more and more.

And what did obstinate Peter McGrath do? Why, he cried, too, with
gasps and groans that seemed almost to kill him.

"Go in," he said; "go in, Mary Ann--go in--and kiss--the feet of him.
Yes--and the boards--he stands on. You don't know what he's done--for
me. It's broke I am--the bad heart of me--broke entirely--with the
goodness of him. May the heavens be his bed!"

"Now, Mrs. McGrath," cried old John, "never you mind Peter; he's a bit
light-headed to-night. Come away in and get a bite for him. I'd like a
dish of tea myself before I go home." Didn't that touch on her Irish
hospitality bring her in quickly!

"Mind you this, Peter," said the old man, going out then, "don't you
be troubling your wife with any little secrets about to-night; that's
between you and me. That's all I ask of you."

Thus it comes about that to this day, when Peter McGrath's fifteen
children have helped him to become a very prosperous farmer, his wife
does not quite understand the depth of worship with which he speaks of
old John Pontiac.

Mrs. Pontiac never knew the story of the night.

"Never mind who it was, Jane," John said, turning out the light, on
returning to bed, "except this,--it was a neighbor in sore trouble."

"Stealing--and you helped him! Well, John, such a man as you are!"

"Jane, I don't ever rightly know what kind of a man I might be,
suppose hunger was cruel on me, and on you, and all of us! Let us
bless God that he's saved us from the terriblest temptations, and
thank him most especially when he inclines our hearts--inclines our
hearts--that's all."

GREAT GODFREY'S LAMENT.

"Hark to Angus! Man, his heart will be sore the night! In five years I
have not heard him playing 'Great Godfrey's Lament,'" said old
Alexander McTavish, as with him I was sitting of a June evening, at
sundown, under a wide apple-tree of his orchard-lawn.

When the sweet song-sparrows of the Ottawa valley had ceased their
plaintive strains, Angus McNeil began on his violin. This night,
instead of "Tullochgorum" or "Roy's Wife" or "The March of the
McNeils," or any merry strathspey, he crept into an unusual moveme