the poor creature had no
notion of striking; and, dancing backwards and forwards from one foot
to the other, and grinning with set teeth in an agony of impotent rage,
cried out:

"Tam Crann, gin ye daur to say anither word against my Bauby wi' that
foul mou' o' yours, I'll--I'll--I'll--worry ye like a mad dog-ye
ill-tongued scoonrel!"

His Bawby had already had two children--one to the rich manufacturer,
the other to the strong horse-doctor.

Thomas turned in silence and went away rebuked and ashamed. Next day he
sent Peter a pair of old corduroy trowsers, into either leg of which he
might have been buttoned like one of Paddy's twins.

In the midst of this commotion of mind and speech, good Mr Cowie died.
He had taken no particular interest in what was going on, nor even in
the prophecies themselves. Ever since Annie's petition for counsel, he
had been thinking, as he had never thought before, about his own
relation to God; and had found this enough without the prophecies. Now
he had carried his thoughts into another world. While Thomas Crann was
bending his spiritual artillery upon the poor crazy tub in which
floated the earthly presence of Peter Peterson, Mr Cowie's bark was
lying stranded upon that shore whither the tide of time is slowly
drifting each of us.

He was gently regretted by all--even by Thomas.

"Ay! ay!" he said, with slow emphasis, 'long drawn out'; "he's gane, is
he, honest man? Weel, maybe he had the root o' the maitter in him,
although it made unco little show aboon the yird. There was sma' flower
and less fruit. But jeedgment disna belang to us, ye see, Jean, lass."

Thomas would judge the living from morning to night; but the dead--he
would leave them alone in the better hands.

"I'm thinkin'," he added, "he's been taen awa' frae the evil to
come--frae seein' the terrible consequences o' sic a saft way o'
dealin' wi' eternal trowth and wi' perishin' men--taen awa' like Eli,
whan he brak his neck at the ill news. For the fire and brimstane that
overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha, is, I doobt, hingin' ower this toon,
ready to fa' and smore us a'."

"Hoot! hoot! dinna speyk sic awfu' words, Thamas, Ye're nae the prophet
Jonah, ye ken."

"Are ye the whaul than, to swallow me and my words thegither, Jean? I
tell ye the wrath o' God _maun_ be roused against this toon, for it's
been growin' waur and waur for mony a year; till the verra lasses are
no to be lippent oot them-lanes (alone)."

"What