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the poor fellow, having done some “Theekin'” for The Cottage, refused to be paid in money, protesting that he owed his life, his very soul, to her alone—“It's kind; it's far ower kind. Ye're far ower gratefu' tae me. What could I hae dune? What could we a' hae dune, but for the Maister Speerit Himsel'? It was He that made ye, Wullie, that kenned how to mend ye; that never lost sicht o' ye, and never lost patience wi' ye; that loved ye to the end, an' dee'd to prove His love ; that cam' an' soucht ye, that last awfu' nicht, and struck a Wall-Ee into yer inner being, and let your Soul burst through tae the licht! ... Wullie, dinna forget Him, an' He'll never forsake you."

Over Wull's marred and coarse-featured face there came a wondrous gleam, and he answered in a kind of half-whisper, as if saying a prayer :

"Aye, aye, I'll mind the Christ. But, He cam' tae me through you; an' never, through a' Eternity, will I be able to think o' Him without thinkin' o' you, Angell Jenn.”

This was the nearest approach that Wull ever made towards a Confession of Faith. Having delivered it, his whole Soul tumbled into tears, and he rushed off to be alone with his flowers. Sweet to his spirit was the incense they breathed. But sweeter far was the incense, then rising from his chastened life, to One Who had tended him when he knew it not, and watered and sunned his soul, till it burst at length into the blossoms and bore the fruits of love.

II.

ANGELL JAMES

Instant the Great Cathedral blazed with light!
And every Window streamed with visions bright

Of aureoled Grace, and luminous Bible lore:-
Thus burst some Men and Women on the world ;
Their Inner Souls,-a glory white unfurled, -
And Heavenly Light a-stream from every pore.

Tinlie Rhymes.

ANGELL JAMES.

TEAVING Tinlie Tower on a sunny afternoon L in June, I made for the Beacon Hill, where, as old Dave said, “ her breath is snell.” This was his graphic way of informing you that, in the hottest summer day, the breath of Nature was cool, or even cold, on the summits there betwixt Annandale and Nithsdale, and that, in chilly weather, it cut you like a knife, and made your cheeks tingle and your fingers dinnle.

Three hours passed joyfully and swiftly away. At one time I was reading In Memoriam, and saturating ear and soul with Tennyson's masterful music. At another, I turned guilelessly to follow the Lark, limping and broken-winged, till it had wiled me far enough from its nest, and then it whirled into the Heavens above in triumphant and carolling song. But mostly, I stood on every height that could be easily reached, and viewed-at every angle, from every different standpoint, and in every varied light-the ceaselessly beautiful Valley of my

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