to her customer with the barm. They conversed earnestly for a time, and then parted mutually pleased. When the barm-buyer had gone, a boy ran into the shop with the startling message— “Your bakehoose is bleezing!” It was blazing, and had been for some time, as the infuriated tailor above could testify. He had barely time to secure his kirkgoing suit and his spectacles when the whole tenement was in a blaze. He swore at the bakehouse and its owner as the ruin of him and his prospects. His furniture and effects were all lost, and he did not hesitate to hint that the whole had been done intentionally. He was in the midst of these recriminations when Coglin appeared, and stood speechless before the blazing house. “You did it on purpose, because you kent I wasna insured, and because you thought I went into your bakehouse and spoilt your batch,” cried the distracted tailor, pouncing on the astonished baker and trying to throttle him black in the face; “but I’ll hae the law to you, or I’ll tak’ your life wi’ my ain hands.” They fought madly for some moments, and were then, considerably damaged, torn asunder by the bystanders. The tailor raved like a madman, and, astonishing to all, the baker listened to his frenzied accusations with the greatest meekness and calmness. The truth is that the tailor, in his passion, had allowed several words and expressions to escape him which for the first time made Coglin doubt his own acumen in accusing Burfoot of the first outrage, and ask himself at the same time if it was not possible that the real perpetrator was Thomas Elder, tailor. The man had a strong hatred to him, and they had quarrelled quite as bitterly as he and Burfoot. The words and expressions would admit of no other explanation than Elder’s guilt, and now several circumstances recurred to Coglin’s memory to confirm the idea. The tailor had bought herrings on that day, and witnessed the quarrel, and might easily have conceived the plan of entering the bakehouse and smearing the window and board with herring scales to convey the idea that the herring hawker was the criminal. While Coglin was slowly evolving these ideas, a hand was placed on his arm, and, looking round, he found Burfoot at his side with genuine concern and consternation on his face. “I’m real sorry for this,” he said, wringing Coglin’s hand, “and if the loan of thirty or forty pounds will help you in your strait, you can depend upon me.” “Good God! no!” cried Coglin, chokingly. “But I say, yes. I can surely help a friend in distress,” persisted Burfoot, warmly. “A friend?” said Coglin, helplessly. “Yes.” “And I’m almost glad to have the chance, for that tailor has lost everything,” added Burfoot, in a whisper. “Nobody can be sorry for him, for, between ourselves, I believe he was the man who entered your bakehouse and spoiled your flour.” “What?”