“Well, then, take my advice, and don’t show your face in that land to-day. If you do, _I think_ what you seek will be destroyed. Wait another day, and I will try to help you all I can. The man O’Lacey has been very ill, and he believes it is the visitation of God, which I do myself,” and he lifted his hat and looked reverently upwards. “Will you have patience for another day, especially when I assure you, on my soul’s salvation, that by going there now you will not get, and never see, what you’re after?” “I will,” I answered, after revolving the proposition for a moment or two, and so we parted. Next day a starch box, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to me, was handed into the office. Inside, in many folds of paper, was the captain’s chronometer, in its chamois leather cover, bright, beautiful, and perfect as when it left the maker’s hands. Pinned to it was a paper, on which were badly written these words— “A contrite sinner restores what was wickedly stolen, and lifts a mighty load off his mind.” I smiled, and though I made some inquiries after O’Lacey, they never came to anything. Tommy Tait was duly identified by the captain, and sentenced to seven years’ retirement, the captain getting back his chronometer, and saying and doing some handsome things on the occasion. THE TORN TARTAN SHAWL. A servant in a house at the outskirts of the city had been tempted by the clear air and dry frost to leave a whole “washing” of things out over night. She wanted them to get a nip of the frost, she said, but instead they got a nip of another kind. The girl woke at four o’clock in the morning and happened to look out at the green, when the clothes were there all right. She rose again at six, and, looking out, had to rub her eyes to make sure that she was not still in bed and dreaming. Nearly the whole of the things were gone.