"Now for a piece of good, honest prose!" said the curate, the moment Harry
had finished, without allowing room for any remarks. "That is, if the
ladies and gentlemen will allow me to read once more."

Of course, all assented heartily.

"It is nothing of a story, but I think it is something of a picture, drawn
principally from experiences of my own childhood, which I told you was
spent chiefly in the north of Scotland. The one great joy of the year,
although some years went without it altogether, was the summer visit paid
to the shores of the Moray Firth. My story is merely a record of some of
the impressions left on myself by such a visit, although the boy is
certainly not a portrait of myself; and if it has no result, no end,
reaching beyond childhood into what is commonly called life, I presume it
is not of a peculiar or solitary character in that respect; for surely
many that we count finished stories--life-histories--must look very
different to the angels; and if they haven't to be written over again, at
least they have to be carried on a few aeons further.

"A CHILD'S HOLIDAY.

"Before the door of a substantial farm-house in the north of Scotland,
stands a vehicle of somewhat singular construction. When analysed,
however, its composition proves to be simple enough. It is a common
agricultural cart, over which, by means of a few iron rods bent across, a
semi-cylindrical covering of white canvas has been stretched. It is thus
transformed from a hay or harvest cart into a family carriage, of
comfortable dimensions, though somewhat slow of progress. The lack of