i' my life. Luik at my han' hoo it
trimles. Luik at my hert. It's brunt oot. There's no a leevin' crater
but yersel' that I hae ony regaird for, sin my auld mither deid. Gin it
warna for buiks, I wad amaist cut my throat. And the senawtus disna
think me bye and aboon half a proper companion for buiks even; as gin
Cupples micht corrup' Milton himsel, although he was ten feet ower his
heid bottled in a buik. And whan I saw ye poor oot the whusky in that
mad-like mainner, as gin 't had been some sma' tipple o' penny ale, it
jist drave me mad wi' anger."

"Weel, Mr Cupples," Alec ventured to say, "what for dinna ye sen' the
bottle to the devil?"

"What, my ain auld tappit hen!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, with a sudden
reaction from the seriousness of his late mood; "Na, na, she shanna
gang to the deil till we gang thegither. Eh! but we'll baith hae dry
insides or we win frae him again, I doobt. That drouth's an awfu' thing
to contemplate. But speyk o' giein' ower the drink! The verra
attemp'--an' dinna ye think that I haena made it--aich! What for sud I
gang to hell afore my time? The deils themselves compleen o' that. Na,
na. Ance ye hae learned to drink, ye _canna_ do wantin' 't. Man, dinna
touch 't. For God's sake, for yer mither's sake, for _ony_ sake, dinna
lat a drap o' the hell-broth gang ower yer thrapple--or ye're damned
like me for ever and ever. It's as guid's signin' awa' yer sowl wi' yer
ain han' and yer ain blude."

Mr Cupples lifted his glass, emptied it, and, setting it down on the
table with a gesture of hatred, proceeded to fill it yet again.

CHAPTER LXXI.

"I say, Forbes, you keep yourself all to yourself and old Cupples, away
there in the new town. Come and take some supper with me to-night. It's
my birthday, old boy."

"I don't do much in that way, you know, Gibby."

"Oh yes, I know. You're never jolly but amongst the shell-fish. At
least that's what the Venall thinks of you. But for once in a way you
might come."

"Well, I don't mind," said Alec, really not caring what came to him or
of him, and glad of anything to occupy him with no-thinking. "When
shall I come?"

"At seven. We'll have a night of it. To-morrow's Saturday."

It was hardly worth while to go home. He would not dine to-day. He
would go and renew his grief by the ever-grieving sea. For his was a
young love, and his sorrow was interesting to him: he embalmed his
pangs in the amber of his consciousness. So he crossed the