which the Miller managed to pour these sentiments, bit by bit, into my ear, the Leddy at last consented,— but only on condition that she, in turn, should have the right to call for the last song, and that her call should be obeyed. This was enthusiastically approved, each one of course concluding that the last call must fall somewhere else, and that he at any rate would be free!

Then came one of the finest bits of natural acting that I ever witnessed on this Earth; and, though I hope for many a pleasure in my day, I have never dreamed that I would see that much surpassed, if at all. The Leddy, in voice, look, and action, pictured before us the whole perfect Life-Story. We saw them on that early sweethearting day, when his "locks were like the raven "; but her love then was not fairer nor warmer than the proud passion with which, to-night, she poured "blessings on his frosty pow." We beheld them in the toil and stress of middle days, "climbing the hill thegither," the burden and the care of life relieved by the "mony a canty day," they had "had wi' yin anither." But the noble love of these strong and fruitful years was matched, if not outdone, by the tender and true affection that leads them on and on, down the other side of Life's Hill:

Noo we maun totter doon, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,

And we'll sleep thegither at the fit,
John Anderson, my Jo."

As she interpreted this matchless Song of Married Love, I realised, as I had never done before, the ir

resistible power of culture, when there is a soul behind it to kindle it into flame. This hard-working Village Lady was the one well-educated Woman there. In her early years, she had got the best of all that could be got from Teachers. The Villagers felt in her the presence of a something which they had not, but which they reverenced; and instinctively they called her "The Leddy," for she treated them all without any airs or pretence, yet with cultured kindliness.

While she was pouring her very soul, with consummate skill and with great natural passion, into the Love Song of the Old Folks at Home, the Miller, with his fiddle resting on his knee, as if its work was for ever done, began to wear on his face a far-gazing look, as if some glorious Vision were coming to meet him, and had already fascinated all his thoughts. A hush of entranced delight settled down on that hitherto boisterous company. And, when she closed her song, no one raised a cheer, only a few muttered murmurs of applause died underbreath, and there ensued what seemed a considerable interval of worshipful silence. They had seen the Heavenly Vision!

This was the very golden crown of all applause. The Lady herself, fully appreciating it, was nevertheless the first to break the charm. "An' noo, I've won the forfeit," cried she, “an' the forfeit is, that Angell James, our auldest frien', an' dearest neebour, shall sing to us The Land o' the Leal.""

With unresisting gentleness, he at once submitted -"Wullin' aye to dae ma best for the happiness o' a'." He explained, in a passing word, that he "had na

muckle music, an' kennt na whether it gat the richt tune or no; but it was gey like a Psaulm, an' cam' handy tae his kind o' singin'.

And truly, as rendered there, it proved to be a Psalm, a Hymn, a Sacred Song, worthy to be sung in any Sanctuary, and as part of any Holy Worship. It put me into such a fervour of devotion and love, of faith and hope, as very few of the Songs of Zion have ever done. I'm wearin' awa, Jean," came on us, as from the lips of a man whose hands were knocking at the Gates of Heaven, and whose eyes already saw them beginning to open to let him in. By the time he had taken farewell of his "ain Jean," had pictured himself as waiting at the doorway to welcome her to "the Land that's aye fair," had bound their hearts indissolubly once more by the memory of their "bonnie Bairnie there," and had assured her, in the triumphant love that baffles death and the grave

"We'll meet and we'll be fain

In the Land o' the Leal"

I was borne clean off my feet in the ecstasy of the singer. I knew not whether I was on Earth or in Heaven. At any rate, I wished never again to come back, never again to lose sight of the Sky that's aye fair in the Land o' the Leal. If there was silence after the Leddy's song, there were tears after this one. Every body feared to look into any other's eyes, lest they should break down altogether, and "be affronted." It was, therefore, an immense relief, when Angell James himself, with transparent simplicity, protested—

"Hech, Leddy, Leddy! Ma auld liltin' Psaulm Tune'll na pass muster wi' creetics and strangers; but, mibbe, it comes wi' a different meanin' mang freens an' neebours, a' houpin' to meet again at last, an' be 'fain' wi' yin anither i' The Land o' the Leal."

By this time, the Miller had put up his fiddle for the night; and the Leddy was beginning to lead the way down the Barn Floor, and back to the Farm House, "for a bittock o' Supper, as it was noo half Twal." An uncannie quietness had fallen! But this soon proved more than the Cheery Miller could stand; and so seizing the two nearest to him, one in either hand, he shouted-"Join hauns a', an' let us hae a verse o' Rabbie!" In a twinkle, the whole company were locked in a ring that circled the entire Barn Floor; and roof and rafters rang with the most perfect Humanly-Brotherly of all Songs that the world has ever heard, or shall ever hear:

"For Auld Lang Syne, my dear,

For Auld Lang Syne,

We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet
For Auld Lang Syne."

This greatly invigorated the Miller, and made him feel the Earth again beneath his feet. Animal spirits were once more tingling to the finger tips of us all. We were running "aboot the braes," in imagination, and "pooing the gowans fine"! We were "paidling i' the burn," as of yore, "frae mornin' sun till dine."

This Social Anthem of the Race is the growth of the Scottish Nation, and the poem of our National

Bard; and yet there are Cockney chits, who talk of us as "sour," and "unsocial people":"A wheen meeserable bletherskytes," as Moudie Jamie protested, "wi' a' their guzzlin' Sangs aboot the 'Roast Beef of Old England,' an' a' their wut springin' frae a gude wame fu' o' the same!"

This time, the Kitchen held all of us that remained, though with a squeeze, but the Miller seemed delighted that it was "just jolly fou." The function before us was not that of feasting but of "tasting," for none of us was fit for more. And the tasting was not that of the "Heather Dew," but of the Scotch Haggis. I cannot deny that the Miller pressed, on some of the Elder Folks, just "a thimmle fu'," just "a toothfu"," and dilated on several of the virtues of "the craytur," at the winding up of a Kirn. It was "gude whan ye were het, for it cuiled ye." It was "gude whan ye were cauld, for it wairmed ye.' It was "graund against toothache." It "waukened ye up when ower sleepy," and it soothed ye asleep when waukrife." In fact, "there's nae kind o' contradictory thing under Heeven which ye may na freely ascribe till't, whan ye're drouthy, an' sairly wush a dram!"

But this was the Young Folks' Spree, and therefore every one of the Elder Folks considered it the proper thing religiously to decline, as an example to the Youngkers. The correct Drink, for such an occasion, was, if you wanted to be heated, steaming Cups of Coffee, and, if you wanted to be cooled, "Hame brewed Treckle Yill," foaming white and high.

The Leddy prided herself on her skill at making