It was Saturday night in the village of Lake Megantic. The work of the
week is done. There is a brief respite from labor which, severe and
unremitting, dulls the mind and chokes the fountains of geniality and
wit. The young men,--indeed, there was a sprinkling of grey hairs,
too,--had gathered in the one hotel the village boasts of. There was a
group in the little room off the bar, and another group in the bar-room
itself. It was well for the host that the palates of his guests had
not been corrupted by the "mixed drinks" of the cities. He steadily
dispensed one article,--that was whiskey. It was quite superfluous to
ask your neighbor what he would take. The whiskey was going round, and
the lads were a little flushed. At the head of the room off the bar a
piper was skirling with great energy, while in the centre of the room a
strapping young fellow was keeping time to the music.

The piper paused, and drew a long breath. The dancer resumed his seat.

"I say, boys," said one of the party, "have you seen Donald Morrison
since he came home?"

Oh, yes, they had all seen him.

"What do you think of him?" the first speaker asked.

"Well," said a second speaker, "I think he is greatly changed. He's too
free with his pistols. He seems to have taken to the habits of the West.
I don't think we want them in Megantic."

"I saw him riding down the road to-day," said a third speaker, "and he
was using the cowboy stirrups and saddle. Talking of his pistols, he's