judgment, and favoured people found it difficult to be humble. I
always thought more of Peter MacIntosh when the mysterious "tribble"
that needed the Perth doctor made no difference in his manner, and
he passed his snuff box across the seat before the long prayer as
usual, but in this indifference to privileges Peter was exceptional.

You could never meet Kirsty Stewart on equal terms, although she was
quite affable to any one who knew his place.

"Ay," she said, on my respectful allusion to her experience, "a've
seen mair than most. It doesna become me to boast, but tho' I say it
as sudna, I hae buried a' my ain fouk."

Kirsty had a "way" in sick visiting, consisting in a certain cadence
of the voice and arrangement of the face, which was felt to be
soothing and complimentary.

"Yir aboot again, a'm glad to see," to me after my accident, "but
yir no dune wi' that leg; na, na, Jeems, that was ma second son,
scrapit his shin aince, tho' no so bad as ye've dune a'm hearing
(for I had denied Kirsty the courtesy of an inspection). It's sax
year syne noo, and he got up and wes traivellin' fell hearty like
yersel. But he begood to dwam (sicken) in the end of the year, and
soughed awa' in the spring. Ay, ay, when tribble comes ye never ken
hoo it 'ill end. A' thocht I wud come up and speir for ye. A body
needs comfort gin he's sober (ill)."

When I found George wrapped in his plaid beside the brier bush whose
roses were no whiter than his cheeks, Kirsty was already installed
as comforter in the parlour, and her drone came through the open