pint of sweet, fresh milk; and how a quarrel arose in the end of the days between the town and country elders because Bumbrae gave the bairns a pint and a half at the price of a pint, and was never brought to a state of repentance. How almost every game known to children in ancient and modern times was played that day in Tochty woods, and the Collector patronised them all, from “tig” to “jingo-ring,” with great access of popularity, if not conspicuous proficiency. How they all gathered together in front of the Lodge before leaving, and the Councillor--he has since risen to be Lord Provost--made the great speech of his life in proposing a vote of thanks to the Collector; and the Collector, to save himself from breaking down, called for three cheers in honour of the Councillor, and led them himself. And how they drove back past Kilbogie in the pleasant evening-time, and at the dispersing half the children of the Vennel shook hands with H.M. Collector of Inland Revenue for Muirtown. The Collector returned home, his heart full of peace, and went to a certain closet of his bedroom, wherein was a box he had not opened for forty years. Within it lay a bridal dress, and an unfinished set of baby clothes, with a needle still fastened in the hem of a garment And the Collector wept; but his tears were half sorrow and half joy, and he did not sorrow as one who had no hope. FATHER JINKS I When I give him this title, I am perfectly aware that his right to it was at the best very doubtful, and that the Romans at St. Francis Xavier's laughed openly at his conceit; but he was always greatly encouraged by any one calling him “Father”; and now that he is gone I, for one, who knew both his little eccentricities and his hard sacrifices, will not throw stones at his grave--plenty were thrown at himself in his lifetime--nor shall I wound his memory by calling him Mr. Jinks. My opinion, as a layman, unattached and perhaps not even intelligent, is of very small account, but it is that of many other laymen; and to us it is of no importance what the servant of the Master is called, whether, like my dear old friend Father Pat Reilly, who has brought back more prodigals from the far country and rescued more waifs from the streets than any man I can hear of, or after the fashion of that worthy man, Pastor John Jump, as he delights to describe himself, who attends to business all the week--something in tinned meats, I think--and on Sunday preaches to a congregation of “baptized believers” with much force and earnestness, also without money or price. Both the Father and the Pastor had some doubts about my salvation--the one because I was not a member of the Anglican Communion, and the other because I was not a “strait Baptist”; but I never had any doubt about theirs--much less indeed than they had of one another's--and of the two I liked... but no, there is no use of comparisons, especially as the Pastor, as well as the Father, has gone to the land where, doubtless,