very beggarly. How could it be otherwise when he knew far more of
what he called the Divine decrees than he did of his own heart, or
the needs and miseries of human nature? At the moment, Mistress
Croale was standing with her back to the door, reaching up to
replace the black bottle on its shelf, and did not see the man she
heard enter.

"What's yer wull?" she said indifferently.

Mr. Sclater made no answer, waiting for her to turn and face him,
which she did the sooner for his silence. Then she saw a man
unknown to her, evidently, from his white neckcloth and funereal
garments, a minister, standing solemn, with wide-spread legs, and
round eyes of displeasure, expecting her attention.

"What's yer wull, sir?" she repeated, with more respect, but less
cordiality than at first.

"If you ask my will," he replied, with some pomposity, for who that
has just gained an object of ambition can be humble? -- "it is that
you shut up this whisky shop, and betake yourself to a more decent
way of life in my parish."

"My certie! but ye're no blate (over-modest) to craw sae lood i' my
hoose, an' that's a nearer fit nor a perris!" she cried, flaring up
in wrath both at the nature and rudeness of the address. "Alloo me
to tell ye, sir, ye're the first 'at ever daured threep my hoose was
no a dacent ane."

"I said nothing about your house. It was your shop I spoke of,"