"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a' their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion, an' bad enough it is at that." [Illustration: "I'M FAIR LAME WI' THAE RHEUMATICS" _By W. Grant Stevenson, R.S.A._] I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution," ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time, had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to "come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that; that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture: "But her! expose her onywhere, She'll ca' for her annuity"; and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to temperature, though I should have been better content without proof of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly said, "Good-bye." "Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer mither?" "Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye." "Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was speirin' for her, an'----" "Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye." "Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae Maggie I mun ca' sune." "She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away; and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off, and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right, old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite well, thank you.' "'And your mother?' "'She's quite well, thank you.' "'And your uncle?' "'He's quite well, thank you." "'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?" "'I haven't got an uncle.' "I had mistaken the boy.--I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet; let's hurry to my hotel."