“A set o' extravagant hizzies,” continued Mary; “fur on their jaickets, like leddies, an' no a penny in the bank. The meenut they get their wages, aff tae spend them on finery. Ane o' them borrowed five shillings frae Lily tae get her boots soled.” “Lord's sake, that's no cannie,” and Posty awoke to the dangers that beset a young girl's path in the great Babylon; “tell Lily, whatever she dis, tae keep her haud o' her siller.” “Ye 're richt there, Posty. Lily's juist ower saft-hearted, and she hes a gey lot o' trimmies tae deal wi'. Wud ye credit it, ilka ane o' them hes 'Miss' on her letters, an' gin freends come tae see them they maun ask for Miss this an' that; a' pit 'Lily Grant, Hoosemaid,' on ma letters.” “Ye're wrang there, Mary,” interrupted Posty; “what for sud ye ca' doon yir ain, an' her sic a fine lassie? Ma opeenion is that a Drumtochty wumman hes as gude a richt tae Miss as her neeburs. Sall, gin a' catch ye sendin' aff anither 'Lily,' a'll whup in the Miss masel; but is there nae word aboot the kirks?” for Posty felt that these trifling details were keeping them from the heart of the matter. “A'm comin' tae that, an' it's worth hear-in', for the ignorance o' thae London fouk is by ordinar. When she askit the near road tae the kirk, naebody in the hoose cud tell her whether it wes east or wast.” Posty wagged his head in pity. “So she gied oot and fell in wi' a polisman, an' as luck wud hae it, he wes a Scotchman. 'Come awa, lassie,' he said; 'a' see whar ye 've frae; it 's a mercy ye didna fa' intae the hands o' some of ma neeburs; they micht hae sent ye aff tae the Methodies, an' they wud hae gien ye a fricht wi' cryin' Hallelujah.'” “A graund body for a' that,” interpolated Posty, “but clean astray on the decrees.” “'Yonder 's the place,' says he, 'an' ye pit yir collection in a plate at the door--there 's nae ladles--but there 's a couthie wumman keeps the door in the gallery, an' she 'ill gie ye a seat.' “She kent it wes her ain place when she saw a properly ordained minister in the pulpit, wi' his black goon and bonnie white bands; and when they started the Hundredth Psalm, her heart cam intae her mooth, an' she cudna sing a word.” “Wes there an organ?” demanded Posty, with the manner of one who has a duty to perform, and must be on his guard against sentiment. “A 'll no tell ye a lee, Posty, there wes, an' of coorse Lily didna like it, but she wes terrible pleased wi' the sermon. As for the organ, it juist boomilled awa, an' she never lat on she heard it.” “Dis she gie the texts an' diveesions?” and Posty smacked his lips. “It's no likely she wud forget that, aifter gaein' ower them ilka Sabbath nicht here sin she wes a wee bairnie. 'Faith without works is dead.' James, ye ken.” “Ay, ay,” cried Posty, impatiently; “a testin' text; ye cudna hae a better tae jidge a a man by; hoo wes 't handled?”