t or two, and
he got them, with a little banter thrown in. The lad stuck to his work,
and could, as his friend said, "do no' that ill." He had perhaps
inherited the power to do the work, since he could do it, he thought,
and he asked leave to come again in the morning.

"Ye hae earned your shilling," said the overseer, when it was time to
go, and he held one out to John. He hardly expected the lad to take it,
but he took it gladly, and looked at it, the man thought, in a curious
way.

"Is it the first shilling ye ever earned?" said he.

"The very first! May I come back to-morrow?"

"O, ay! gin ye like; but I should think that this is hardly the kind o'
work ye're best fitted for."

"One must take what one can get," said John.

That was the beginning. He went again, and as hands happened to be
scarce at the time, he was kept on, and his wages were raised as his
skill and his strength increased. By and by he was offered permanent
work on a mill that was to be built in a country place at some distance.
It would take months to build, and he would be sure of work for that
time; so he took his mother with him, and what household stuff they had
left, and lived in a tiny room in a cottage for a while.

Not very far from the new mill was Nethermuir, a quiet place, out of the
way, where they might live, they said to one another, unknown and
forgotten. And here, after many thoughts about it, they resolved to
make themselves a home.

At the end of the street on which stood the missionary kirk and manse,
was a small house which had once been of the better sort, but which had
been vacant for some time, and had fallen into disrepair. The thatch
was rotten and the roof had partly fallen in, but the foundation was
firm, and the walls were thick and strong. This house John leased for
seven years, at a very small rent, and by his own strength, and skill,
and will, with some help from his fellow-workmen, he made of it such a
house as was not unworthy of being a home for his mother; and in it,
while her son went here and there as his work called him, she lived
content.

Terrible as the blow was which took from them husband and father and
home, it might have been worse in the end had John Beaton died a rich
man. So said some of the lookers-on, who long before that time had
declared that his son, having all his life long got more of his own will
than was good for him, was in a fair way to become a "spoiled laddie" at
las