native River of Nith, and the fairy sweeping Dales of her sister, the Water of Annan.

The longest stance, however, was always on the Beacon Hill, where the breath was snell and the prospect wide and fair. Turning to North and East, the eye swept from Queensberry to Hart Fell, from Hart Fell to Brunswark, and from Brunswark to the Cheviot Hills; and breezy Moffat and busy Lockerbie, sleepy Lochmaben and sprightly Annan, nestled among the hills or sunned themselves in the dales, while Annan Water, sparkling with salmon, bathed their feet. Again, turning round on the very spot where you stand, and gazing to West and South, your eye sweeps from the Watchman of Kirkmahoe, above Auldgirth, down the whole glowing Valley of the lower Nith, with the spires and towers of Dumfries shimmering before you, the mighty Hills of wild Galloway bounding the horizon beyond, the majestic Criffel, cloud-capped, standing as sentinel of the Ages, the silver sheen of Solway Sea and Sands spreading away for miles and miles, and the blue smoke of Villages on the Cumberland shore, telling of human loves and cares like our own beyond the tide.

At peace with all the world, I sauntered leisurely in the cool of the evening towards the Hill Road, intending to swing round when I reached the Linns, and then home to Tinlie. Near the very summit of the Moorland path I left the Sheep Track, and set my foot upon a style to step over into the public roadway; when, suddenly, from behind the Great Thorn, scattering its scented blossoms on the desert air,

Heather Jock confronted me, with the look on his face of a man who had been caught, unexpectedly, either at some mischief, or saying his prayers on the sly!

"Wheesht, Laird, wheesht! Speak lower for a meenut or twa, an' I'll explain everything. Glent doon the road, frae the style step whaur ye're staunin'; and mark a wee bit Mannie, wi' a black baggie on his back, aboot twice the size o' a Schuleboy's satchel, an' white locks o' hair like a lammie's fleece waving ower his collar;—tak' a gude luik, an' it'll maybe help ye tae sympatheeze wi' me, an' tae understaun' ma hidin' ahint the Muckle Haw Thorn Bush."

"Surely," exclaimed I, after a prolonged and eager gaze, while Jock was pouring out his fervent description, "that is James of The Cottage, the worthy mate of her whom they call Angell Jenn."

"The same! An' God bless the grund he gangs on, say I," quoth Heather Jock, more fervently than ever; and then he reverently added-" The name o' God may soon' strange tae ye, Laird, frae ma coorse lips, whaur it has been a hunder times in curses, for yince in prayer! But, ye see, I've been stairtlit oot o' ma devotions, an' the fit's no aff me yet."

By this time, I was more than ever interested in this Man of the Moors, and in his Thorn Bush devotions; and I did everything in my power, alike by look and by word, to draw forth his confidence that he might unburden his very soul to me. I knew that he was one of those lonely and self-centred beings who have no confidants, who seldom unbosom; but who, when once or perhaps

twice in a lifetime they do so, positively luxuriate in the exercise as a Heavenly relief.

They tell me," began Heather Jock, gazing in the direction of his Hero, now far down the Hill Road, and wellnigh out of sight, "that he was aye gude an' Christianly. But the last ten or twal years, a' his time an' a' his life is spent in gude only an' a'thegither. He tots aboot there, frae Cot to Cot, frae Ferm to Ferm. He spreads oot his bits o' buiks an' tracts, on Parlour or on Kitchen table; an' aye, in the front o' a', he ranges the bonniest Bibles an' the brawest New Testaments, bund in morocco an' claspit wi' gowd; whilk, he tells them, they can hae for a shillin' or an aughtpence or even a saxpence 'less than you Lassocks waste on a ribbon, an' you Laddies on a pipe or a dram.' An' his talk's sae couthie, an' his face sae kindly, that ilka Lad buys a new Kirk Bible for his Lass; an' ilka Lass, a Pilgrim's Progress, or an Uncle Tom's Cabin, for her sweetheart. They ca' him a Coleporter; but that's a rideeculous name for siccan wark in Scotland. Mair like, I'm thinkin', Laird, gin they wad ca' him a Bible-porter!"

'Right, Jock," responded I," that name, Colporteur, is one of those absurd French importations, that never can lose its ridiculously Foreign look. But, you see, there are Cockney creatures, with Scotch blood in their veins,—scribblers in the Press and chatterers on the Platform, who think it gives them an air of learning to quote French or German, and to use such words and phrases, when their own Mother Tongue is ten times more graphic. Set down every man and mother's son of them as

Cuifs,' brainless Cuifs; and stick to the Mither Tongue, wi' as strong a whiff o' the heather in't as ye like, whanever ye forgaither wi' a Scot that's worthy tae be spoken tae in ony tongue!" And by this time, my Scotch was as broad as that of Heather Jock himself; which still more and more befalls me, when their own kindly Doric begins to play on my ear, and to re-awaken the tongue of my Childhood.

Then," continued Jock, half soliloquizing, and not much moved by my patriotic burst, "the wee bit Mannie tots awa' hamewarts aboot the lowsin' time; an' yince, ilka second week, he gangs this gate, an' this gate he returns in the e'enin'. Noo, I notisht, for lang an' mony a day, that the body aye rested on this Style, an' slung aff his Satchelbaggie, an' tuk' a bit blaw on his Cutty pipe. This greatly opened ma heart tae him; for I logicked this wey, that a man wha cud enjoy a lunt or twa o' the pipe wadna be ower Heevenly-minded for Heather Jock! Sae, I resolved tae draw near an' nearer, an' ' the langsam tae fa' into a crack, an' maybe tae licht oor pipes thegither. But, ye see, Laird, I was na releegious; I hated a' the Releegion, I had ever seen or met. Megsty, man, I had even tell't oor Bell yince, gif that Boddy ca'd at Peesweep Nests, tae chairge him never tae come back, as I wad hae nowther his buiks nor his prayers! That was ugly, I maun alloo; but thanks tae thae Heepocrites, wha made the verra name o' God, an' Releegion, stink in the nostrils o' fowk like me!"

"I dinna blame ye, Jock, no the least," cried

I, revelling in my recovered Scotch; "It's no yae month gane, syne I first saw Releegion in a garb that wooed me and won me. Ca awa'! Ma hert mair than understauns ye."

"Weel, ye see, whan that parteekular nicht cam roon', I aye fan' masel' daunerin' near an' nearer this Style; but wantin' no to be seen, till I was shure o' ma grun', an' had made up ma min' exactly what I wad dae an' what I wad say. But, lo and behold, I was just planting ma fit on the Style, yae bonnie gloamin', years byegane noo, tae luik aboot for him, whan there sat the Boddy on the tither side o' the dyke, a' unconscious that ony yin but God was near! Scarcely kennin' what I did, saftly and silently I slippit back, cooryin' ahint the dyke, an' laid masel' flat on the girse, ayont the Muckle Thorn. Laird, I'm no leein', but tellin' ye the God's truith, whan I declare, that the neist half-oor was the openin' o' the Gates o' Heeven tae me; an' but for what I heard an' felt an' saw, that nicht, I wad hae been, afore this, i' the Deeps o' Hell, a damned and meeserable sowl."

"Say on, say mair," pled I, "dinna deprive me o' the blessin'. What was gude for you to pass through, maun be gude for me to hear."

"Losh preserve us a'! Gif the Boddy wasna thrang talkin' tae the Almichty, wi' a saft and cooin' voice, but just as plainly as I'm crackin' tae you; tellin' ower a' his bits o' plans, his anxieties an' cares aboot yin and anither-maist o' them I kenned weel-an' liftin' up here an' there a broken bit o' prayer, or liltin' a verse o' praise, as the case