The child was taken to the deacon’s house, and trained and educated, and finally sent to college, and now promises to occupy a distinguished position in the profession which proved so disastrous to his father. The stolen bank note was never traced, but it was believed to have been taken by a woman who had acted as chapel-keeper, and who was afterwards sent to prison for a theft quite as mean, though less disastrous in its results. A MURDERER’S MISTAKE. A toll-keeper on the main road some miles south of Edinburgh was standing at his open door watching the gambols of his two children, when a weary traveller approached and arrested his gaze. There was something uncommon about the dusty tramp when his appearance could rouse interest in an old toll-keeper, accustomed to look with indifference on every kind of wanderer that God’s earth can produce. This one was an old man, tall and gaunt and white-haired. So far there was a bond of interest between them, but with age the comparison ceased, for the toll-keeper was stout and well-clad, and had a comfortable expression beaming from every part of his face; while the stranger was haggard, worn, and drooping, like one who had got all that earth was likely to give, and did not care how soon the giving ceased. Above the toll-keeper’s happy face was a ticket intimating that he was licensed to sell tobacco; while in one window a few bottles of confections and biscuits, and the words “Refreshments and Lemonade” on a show card, summed up his efforts at trading. The dusty tramp halted in front of the toll-keeper, giving the stout man a full view of his poor clothing and fragile boots, from which his toes were peeping, and his sharp eyes eagerly devoured the intimation above the doorway. “Good evening, sir,” he said quietly, as he fumbled among his clothes for a pocket, and at length produced a penny. The toll-keeper in general was gruff enough with tramps, even when they seemed disposed to buy his wares, but there was a ring in the tones of this one which struck a chord of pity in his breast, and he returned the greeting kindly. In front of the window showing the biscuits and sweets was a wooden bench. The haggard one limped towards this bench, saying in the same quiet tones— “Might I rest for a bit on this bench?” There was nothing arrogant or bold in this request, but rather a ring of indifference or despair. It was as if he had said—“It doesn’t matter whether you say yes or no, or whether I sit down or move on, or drop dead by the way. The end is not far off either way.” “Oh, ay, sit as lang as ye like; ye’re welcome,” said the toll-keeper, heartily. “You look like you had come a far way?” “I have, sir—a matter of four hundred miles,” said the white-haired tramp, knitting his brows; then recovering himself, he said in his former quiet tones, “I suppose you couldn’t let me have a penn’orth of tobacco? I’ve on’y a penny left.”