"Well, Smith, I can't talk philosophy like you; but what you say sounds to me like sense. At all events, if Adela enjoys it, that is enough for me. Will the young doctor tell stories too?" "I don't know. I fancy he _could_. But to-night we have his brother." "I shall make them welcome, anyhow." This was all I wanted of him; and now I was impatient for the evening, and the clergyman's tale. The more I saw of him the better I liked him, and felt the more interest in him. I went to church that same day, and heard him read prayers, and liked him better still; so that I was quite hungry for the story he was going to read to us. The evening came, and with it the company. Arrangements, similar to those of the evening before, having been made, with some little improvements, the colonel now occupying the middle place in the half-circle, and the doctor seated, whether by chance or design, at the corner farthest from the invalid's couch, the clergyman said, as he rolled and unrolled the manuscript in his hand: "To explain how I came to write a story, the scene of which is in Scotland, I may be allowed to inform the company that I spent a good part of my boyhood in a town in Aberdeenshire, with my grandfather, who was a thorough Scotchman. He had removed thither from the south, where the name is indigenous; being indeed a descendant of that Christy, whom his father, Johnie Armstrong, standing with the rope about his neck, ready to be hanged--or murdered, as the ballad calls it--apostrophizes in these words: 'And God be with thee, Christy, my son, Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee! But an' thou live this hundred year, Thy father's better thou'lt never be.' But I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen all, for this has positively nothing to do with the story. Only please to remember that in those days it was quite respectable to be hanged." We all agreed to this with a profusion of corroboration, except the colonel; who, I thought, winced a little. But presently our attention was occupied with the story, thus announced: "_The Bell. A Sketch in Pen and Ink_." He read in a great, deep, musical voice, with a wealth of pathos in it--always suppressed, yet almost too much for me in the more touching portions of the story. "One interruption more," he said, before he began. "I fear you will find it a sad story." And he looked at Adela. I believe that he had chosen the story on the homoeopathic principle. "I like sad stories," she answered; and he went on at once. "THE BELL. "A SKETCH IN PEN AND INK.