It occurred to him, as he entered the narrow strip of garden before the door, that the children of the neighborhood must have congregated to hold high carnival. Groups made dirt-pies; clusters played "bobber and kibbs;" select parties settled differences of opinions with warmth of feeling and elevation of voice; a youth of tender years, in corduroys which shone with friction, stood upon his head in one corner, calmly but not haughtily presenting to the blue vault of heaven a pair of ponderous, brass-finished clogs. "What dost want?" he demanded, without altering his position. "Th' missus isn't in." "I'm going in to see Janey," explained Murdoch. He found the little kitchen shining with the Saturday "cleaning up." The flagged floor as glaringly spotless as pipe-clay and sandstone could make it, the brass oven-handles and tin pans in a condition to put an intruder out of countenance, the fire replenished, and Janey sitting on a stool on the hearth enveloped in an apron of her mother's, and reading laboriously aloud. "Eh! dear me!" she exclaimed. "It's yo'--an' I am na fit to be seen. I wur settin' down to rest a bit. I've been doin' th' cleanin' aw day, an' I wur real done fur." "Never mind that," said Murdoch. "That's all right enough." He cast about him for a safe position to take--one in which he could stretch his legs and avoid damaging the embarrassing purity of the floor. Finally he settled upon a small print-covered sofa and balanced himself carefully upon its extreme edge and the backs of his heels, notwithstanding Janey's civil protestations. "Dunnot yo' moind th' floor," she said. "Yo' needn't. Set yo' down comfortable." "Oh, I'm all right," answered Murdoch, with calm good cheer. "This is comfortable enough. What's that you were reading?" Janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly confidence. "It's a book I getten fro' th' Broxton Chapel Sunday Skoo'. Its th' Mem--m-e-m-o-i-r-s----" "Memoirs," responded Murdoch. "Memoyers of Mary Ann Gibbs." Unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on the subject of the Broxton Chapel literature. He cast about him mentally, but with small success. "I don't seem to have heard of it before," was the conclusion he arrived at. "Hannot yo'? Well, it's a noice book, an' theer's lots more like it in th' skoo' libery--aw about Sunday skoo' scholars as has consumption an' th' loike an' reads th' boible to foalk an' dees. They aw on 'em dee." "Oh," doubtfully, but still with respect. "It's not very cheerful, is it?" Janey shook her head with an expression of mature resignation.