nk wi' him afore he went," he
continued, his eye lighting with the dewy memory, "ye'll likely ken him?
Oliver was his name, Wattie Oliver, a bow-leggit wee body."

"I cannot say I ever met with him," replied Mr. Blake. "Canada is larger
than you think over here."

"Mebbe so," said the friendly stranger, "mair nor likely he's deid noo;
one o' thae red Indians micht hae killed him, like eneuch."

"Yes, or perhaps a bear," Mr. Blake replied gravely.

There was a pause. A bell was ringing, its notes floating in clear and
sweet upon them.

"What bell is that?" inquired Mr. Blake.

"That's oor bell i' the parish kirk; there's no ither ane."

"What is it ringing for? To-day is Thursday," asked Mr. Blake.

"Aye," responded the other, "this is the fast day. Sabbath's the
sacrament, ye ken, and they're maist awfu' strict aboot the fast day.
They wadna work that day, nae mair than on the Sabbath. They willna even
whustle. Ae mornin' I met Davie Drewry, an' 'twas the fast day. Noo, of
course, it was juist an or'nary day in Dr. Cameron's parish across the
burn--the burn divides the twa, ye ken. Weel, Davie was a lad for
whustlin'--he cudna leeve withoot whustlin'--but he was gey religious
too. Weel, I met Davie that mornin', walkin' awfu' fast, maist
rinnin'--an' his face was red.

"'Whaur micht ye be gaun, Davie?' says I, 'naebody ailin'?'

"'Na, na,' says Davie, 'but it's the fast day, an' I canna stand it ony
longer. I'm gaun ower the burn to hae a whustle.' Wasna that fair
redeek'lus!"

"Quite ingenious," answered Mr. Blake. "You go to that church, I
suppose?"

"Na, I dinna. I quit it when they brocht the kist o' whustles intill't.
I wadna stand it. There's nae real Presbyterians there, forbye me an'
Jock Campbell--an' I'm sair feart aboot Jock. I doot he's weakenin'.
They tell me he speaks to the minister on the street, an' if that's
true, there's no' muckle o' the auld religion aboot Jock, I'm fearin'."

"Do you not speak to the minister?"

"Na, I dinna. There's naething o' the hypocrite aboot me, I'm tellin'
ye. I settled the minister fine the last word I spoke to him. He came to
see me; an' he thocht he could wheedle me aboot the organ i' the hoose
o' God.

"'Div ye no' ken,' he says to me, 'aboot Dauvit, the sweet singer o'
Israel--how he played a' kinds o' instruments i' the Lord's hoose?' He
thocht he had me. But I gied him as guid as he brocht. What think ye I
answered him?"

"I really have no idea,"