It was after this meeting of Session that Mr. Smellie remarked to Mr. Menzies, as we have already recorded, that "the man was aince a poacher!" a fact which, by the way, he had communicated to Mr. Porteous also for the sake of "edification". Mr. Smellie bore a grudge towards the Sergeant, who had somehow unwittingly ruffled his vanity or excited his jealousy. He was smooth as a cat; and, like a cat, could purr, fawn, see in the dark, glide noiselessly, or make a sudden spring on his prey. The Sergeant, from certain circumstances which shall be hereafter noticed, understood his character as few in the parish did. Mr. Menzies was a different, and therefore better man, his only fault being that he believed in Smellie. The Sergeant was later than usual in returning home. It was impossible to conceal from the inquiring and suspicious look of his wife that something was out of joint, to the extent at least of making it allowable and natural on her part to ask, "What’s wrang noo, Adam?" "Nothing particular, except wi’ my honour," was the Sergeant’s cool reply. "Yer honour! What’s wrang wi’ that?" "The minister," said the Sergeant, "doots it, and he tells me that it was wrang to speak aboot it." On this, Katie, who did not quite comprehend his meaning, begged to know what had taken place. "What did they say? What did they do? Wha spak’?" And she poured out a number of questions which could not speedily be answered. We hope it will not diminish the reader’s interest in this excellent woman if we admit that for a moment she, too, became the slave of gossip. We deny that this prostration of the heart and head to a mean idol is peculiar to woman--this craving for small personal talk, this love of knowledge regarding one’s neighbours in those points especially which are not to their credit, or which at least are naturally desired by them to be kept secret from the world. Weak, idle, and especially vain men are as great traffickers as women in this dissocial intercourse. Like small insects, they use their small stings for annoyance, and are flattered when they make strong men wince. Katie’s fit was but momentary, and in the whole circumstances of the case excusable. The Sergeant told her of his pass at arms, and ended with an indignant protest about his honour. "What do they mak’," partly asserted, partly inquired Katie, "o’ ’Honour to whom honour?’--and ’Honour all men?’--and ’Honour the king?’--and ’Honour faither and mither?’--what _I_ did a’ my life! I’ll maintain the word is Scriptoral!"