I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these memoirs, the plan of relating either those things only at which I was present, or, if other things, only in the same mode in which I heard them. I will now depart from this plan—for once. Years passed before some of the following facts were reported to me, but it is only here that they could be interesting to my readers. At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as nearly as I can guess, Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir’s workshop. The usual, on the present occasion somewhat melancholy, greetings having passed between them, Old Rogers said— “Don’t you think, Mr Weir, there’s summat the matter wi’ parson?” “Overworked,” returned Weir. “He’s lost two, ye see, and had to see them both safe over, as I may say, within the same day. He’s got a bad cold, I’m sorry to hear, besides. Have ye heard of him to-day?” “Yes, yes; he’s badly, and in bed. But that’s not what I mean. There’s summat on his mind,” said Old Rogers. “Well, I don’t think it’s for you or me to meddle with parson’s mind,” returned Weir. “I’m not so sure o’ that,” persisted Rogers. “But if I had thought, Mr Weir, as how you would be ready to take me up short for mentionin’ of the thing, I wouldn’t ha’ opened my mouth to you about parson—leastways, in that way, I mean.” “But what way DO you mean, Old Rogers?” “Why, about his in’ards, you know.” “I’m no nearer your meanin’ yet.” “Well, Mr Weir, you and me’s two old fellows, now—leastways I’m a deal older than you. But that doesn’t signify to what I want to say.” And here Old Rogers stuck fast—according to Weir’s story. “It don’t seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers,” said Weir. “Well, it ain’t. So I must just let it go by the run, and hope the parson, who’ll never know, would forgive me if he did.” “Well, then, what is it?” “It’s my opinion that that parson o’ ours—you see, we knows about it, Mr Weir, though we’re not gentlefolks—leastways, I’m none.” “Now, what DO you mean, Old Rogers?” “Well, I means this—as how parson’s in love. There, that’s paid out.” “Suppose he was, I don’t see yet what business that is of yours or mine either.” “Well, I do. I’d go to Davie Jones for that man.” A heathenish expression, perhaps; but Weir assured me, with much amusement in his tone, that those were the very words Old Rogers used. Leaving the expression aside, will the reader think for a moment on the old man’s reasoning? My condition WAS his business; for he was ready to die for me! Ah! love does indeed make us all each other’s keeper, just as we were intended to be. “But what CAN we do?” returned Weir. Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old man, that he was busy with a coffin for his daughter, who was lying dead down the street. And so my poor affairs were talked of over the coffin-planks. Well, well, it was no bad omen.