in their very den, and so cowed them by the grandeur of his spirit and the sanctity of his life that they who were said to fear neither God, man, nor devil, came to reverence my father, and let it be known among all and sundry that to wrong him was to wrong them, and woe betide the evil-doer who should forget it. Now at this time my sister Ruth kept my father's house, my mother, whose sweet face I scarce remember yet seem at times to catch a glimpse of in my dreams, being many years dead, though living till enshrined in my father's heart. Picture a maiden, "sweet and twenty," just as high as a tall man's heart, light of foot, soft of voice, with wavy auburn hair, dark-brown, soft eyes, yet not without their roguish twinkle, tempting lips, teeth of pearl, a neat waist, a neater ankle, a rounded bust, a shrewd, common-sense mind, a soft heart, and a ready tongue--and that was Ruth. A ray of sunshine in the house? Pooh! Ruth was spring and summer all in one, my father's darling, my own torment and delight, the spoiled pet of the grave elders of the church, and the idol of their grown sons, whose assiduousness at the Sunday services and the weekly prayer meetings I very much fear must be set at least as much to Ruth's score as to our father's. Now considering how awful were the terrors which the faithful at Pole Moor escaped 'tis sad to think how lightly they appraised the services of their pastor, if their appreciation must be measured by the stipend they afforded him. 'Tis true he lived rent free, had grazing for a cow, a mistal, a potato patch, pew rents, and the proceeds of an occasional collection--benefits the pillars of the church enumerated with unction as they reminded themselves that they did not muzzle the ox that trod out the corn. But they ever seemed to forget, and my father was the last to jog their memories, that no one came for alms to Pole Moor and went empty away. So if we had high thinking at the Manse we'd low living, and we seemed to thrive on it. We kept no servant now Ruth was grown, and my father foddered his cow fed his pig "mucked out" the mistal and stye, mowed his meadow, and dug his garden himself: and Ruth's firm little hands milked the cow, tended the poultry, made the butter, made the bread, cooked our rare joints, and kept all as clean as a new ha'penny. And so it chanced that as Jim and I drew near the little enclosure walled off from the moor, which served as our kitchen garden, we came upon the reverend pastor of Pole Moor, dressed in a long blue linen smock, his feet shod, in the homely clog, his bare and bald head perspiring freely as he thrust the prongs of a fork into the earth and, turned up the soil and threw the gathered potatoes into a small round basket. "Who's th' owd felly?" asked Jim in a whisper.