'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I thocht ye was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's basket. Eh me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray. They a' ca' me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth. Yet he had as good a right before God to be called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him Moray, or some better name. 'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor, this time repeating the name with emphasis. 'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll play some mischeef some day.' 'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken your arm.' 'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit frien' o' his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to haud them gaein', ye ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added Shargar, beseechingly. 'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.' 'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first profession of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.' During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary' horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was. 'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an' I'm muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my airm, for it gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the stickin' o' 't thegither again.' 'My poor boy! you don't think I'm going to leave you here, do you?' said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door. 'But whaur's the hamper?' said Shargar, looking about him in dismay. 'The coachman has got it on the box,' answered the doctor. 'Eh! that'll never do. Gin thae rampaugin' brutes war to tak a start again, what wad come o' the bit basket? I maun get it doon direckly.' 'Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.' As he spoke the doctor got out. 'Tak care o' 't, sir; tak care o' 't. William Walker said there was a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket; an' the bairns wad miss 't sair gin 't war spult.' 'I will take good care of it,' responded the doctor. He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the coachman to drive home. 'Whaur are ye takin' me till?' exclaimed Shargar. 'Willie hasna payed me for the parcel.' 'Never mind Willie. I'll pay you,' said the doctor.