"Na!" replied Adam, "I was mair feared for yer auld cousin, my mither, gif she kent what I was aboot, for she’s unco’ prood o’ you. But I didna think ye ever luiked efter poachers yersel’? Noo I hae telt ye a’ aboot it." "I’ faith," said John, taking a snuff and handing the box to Adam, "it’s human natur’! But ye ken, human natur’s wicked, desperately wicked! and afore I was a keeper my natur’ was fully as wicked as yours,--fully, Adam, if no waur. But I hae repented--ever sin’ I was made keeper; and I wadna like to hinder your repentance. Na, na. We mauna be ower prood! Sae I’ll---- Wait a bit, man, be canny till I see if ony o’ the lads are in sicht;" and John peeped over a knoll, and cautiously looked around in every direction until satisfied that he was alone. "--I’ll no’ mention this job," he continued, "if ye’ll promise me, Adam, never to try this wark again; for it’s no’ respectable; and, warst o’ a’, it’s no’ safe, and ye wad get me into a habble as weel as yersel’. Sae promise me, like a guid cousin, as I may ca’ ye,--and bluid is thicker than water, ye ken,--and then just creep doon the burn, and alang the plantin’, and ower the wa’, till ye get intil the peat road, and be aff like stoor afore the win’; but I canna wi’ conscience let ye tak’ the birds wi’ ye." Adam thought a little, and said, "Ye’re a gude sowl, John, and I’ll no’ betray ye." After a while he added, gravely, "But I maun kill something. It’s no in my heart as wickedness; but my fingers maun draw a trigger." After a pause, he continued, "Gie’s yer hand, John; ye hae been a frien’ to me, and I’ll be a man o’ honour to you. I’ll never poach mair, but I’ll ’list and be a sodger! Till I send hame money,--and it’ill no’ be lang,--be kind tae my mither, and I’ll never forget it." "A sodger!" exclaimed John. But Adam, after seizing John by the hand and saying, "Fareweel for a year and a day," suddenly started off down the glen, leaving two brace of grouse, with his gun, at John’s feet; as much as to say, Tell my Lord how you caught the wicked poacher, and how he fled the country. Spence told indeed how he had caught a poacher, who had escaped, but never gave his name, nor ever hinted that Adam was the man. It was thus Adam Mercer poached and enlisted. One evening I was at the house of a magistrate with whom I was acquainted, when a man named Andrew Dick called to get my friend’s signature to his pension paper, in the absence of the parish minister. Dick had been through the whole Peninsular campaign, and had retired as a corporal. I am fond of old soldiers, and never fail when an opportunity offers to have a talk with them about "the wars". On the evening in question, my friend Findlay, the magistrate, happened to say in a bluff kindly way, "Don’t spend your pension in drink." Dick replied, saluting him, "It’s very hard, sir, that after fighting the battles of our country, we should be looked upon as worthless by gentlemen like you."