wi' a clean
conscience; an' ye may ken me weel gien ye wull. An' there's jist
ae thing mair, sir: I gie ye my Bible-word, 'at never, gien I saw
sign o' repentance or turnin' upo' ane o' them 'at pits their legs
'aneth my table--Wad ye luik intil the parlour, sir? No!--as I was
sayin', never did I, sin' I keepit hoose, an' never wad I set mysel'
to quench the smokin' flax; I wad hae no man's deith, sowl or body,
lie at my door."

"Well, well, Mistress Croale," said the minister, somewhat dazed by
the cataract he had brought upon his brain, and rather perplexed
what to say in reply with any hope of reaching her, "I don't doubt a
word of what you tell me; but you know works cannot save us; our
best righteousness is but as filthy rags."

"It's weel I ken that, Mr. Sclater. An' I'm sure I'll be glaid to
see ye, sir, ony time ye wad dee me the fawvour to luik in as ye're
passin' by. It'll be none to yer shame, sir, for mine's an honest
hoose."

"I'll do that, Mistress Croale," answered the minister, glad to
escape. "But mind," he added, "I don't give up my point for all
that; and I hope you will think over what I have been saying to
you--and that seriously."

With these words he left the shop rather hurriedly, in evident dread
of a reply.

Mistress Croale turned to the shelves behind her, took again the
bottle she had replaced, poured out a large half-glass of whisky,
and tossed it off. She had been compelled to think and talk of
things unpleasant, and it had put her, as she said, a' in a trim'le.
She was but one of the many who get the fuel of their life in at
the wrong door, their comfort from the world-side of the universe.
I cannot tell whether Mr. Sclater or she was the farther from the
central heat. The woman had the advantage in this, that she had to
expend all her force on mere self-justification, and had no energy
left for vain-glory. It was with a sad sigh she set about the work
of the house. Nor would it have comforted her much to assure her
that hers was a better defence than any distiller in the country
could make. Even the whisky itself gave her little relief; it
seemed to scald both stomach and conscience, and she vowed never to
take it again. But alas! this time is never the time for
self-denial; it is always the next time. Abstinence is so much more
pleasant to contemplate upon the other side of indulgence! Yet the
struggles after betterment that many a drunkard has made in vain,
would