"No' that I know of, but when I wis pew opener at St. George's I let in
some verra braw folk. One Sunday there wis a lord, no less. A shaughly
wee buddy he wis tae. Ma Andra wud hae been gled to see him sae oorit."

The eyes of the Jardines were turned inquiringly on their handmaid. It
seemed a strange reason for joy on the part of the late Andrew M'Cosh.

"Weel," his widow explained, "ye see, Andra wis a Socialist an' thocht
naething o' lords--naething. I used to show him pictures o' them in the
_Heartsease Library_--fine-lukin' fellays wi' black mustacheys--but he
juist aye said, 'It's easy to draw a pictur', and he wouldna own that
they wis onything but meeserable to look at. An', mind you, he wis
richt. When I saw the lord in St. George's, I said to masel', I says,
'Andra wis richt,' I says." She lifted up the tray and prepared to
depart. "Weel, he'll no' be muckle troubled wi' them whaur he's gone,
puir man. The Bible says, Not many great, not many noble."

"D'you think," said Mhor in a pleasantly interested voice, "that Mr.
M'Cosh is in heaven?" (Mhor never let slip an opportunity for
theological discussions.) "I wouldn't care much to go to heaven myself,
for all my friends are in"--he stopped and cast a cautious glance at
Jean, and, judging by her expression that discretion was the better part
of valour, and in spite of an encouraging twinkle in the eyes of Jock,
finished demurely--"the Other Place."

"Haw, haw," laughed Jock, who was consistently amused by Mhor and his
antics. "I'm sorry for your friends, old chap. Do I know them?"

"Well," said Mhor, "there's Napoleon and Dick Turpin and Graham of
Claverhouse and Prince Charlie and----"