in its call to universal praise--associated closely as it is with the noblest, simplest, most moving melody which ever rang rudely yet thrillingly through barn kirk or along bleak hill-side, faltered and died away on Jean’s quivering lips. The staunch-hearted woman began again with the psalm which holds the second place in the regard of her nation-- The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want; and when she had reached the fourth verse, she found that her choice was more appropriate: Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill, said Jean steadfastly--and truly, it was like voluntarily descending into ‘death’s dark vale’ to go on with the end in view for which Jean journeyed this day. And if she had got her choice, the girl in her magnificent bloom of young womanhood, with all her warm interest in life--which her religion sanctified but did not stifle, would far rather have lain her down and died, than found Bob Meffin a leear, a still more cruel sinner against another woman than against Jean herself. Jean was not well known to the congregation of Logan Kirk; she had not been there more than once or twice in her life before, and the one person in the neighbourhood with whom she was well acquainted she did not expect to see in the kirk this morning. She reached the little kirk close to the adjoining hamlet, both of the ‘drystane dyke’ order of architecture, just as the most primitive of bells commenced to make discord instead of harmony, clattering and tinkling instead of clashing and booming its summons. Nobody recognised Jean as she passed through the groups in the roughly kept kirkyard, and though she did not absolutely shrink from observation, being too brave and upright to take, as if by natural instinct, to hiding her head, she certainly did not desire notice. She was glad to get into a back seat without attracting any further remark--than what was casually bestowed on a strange face, from the fellow-worshippers who were equally strange to her.