was nocht but a rubbish o' auld bottles and sic-like, ye'd t' push yersel atween the bairrel an' the wa', and it was not sae easy dune I can tell ye that, the cellar was but wee.

"Weel, I up on the edge o' the bairril t' rax down the Reed Colvilles that were sittin' on a bit shelf abuve, whaun afore I kent," [a groan came here from the sister-in-law ], "the bairrel was ower, and me ower wi' it on till the far side!"

"A fine dunt [blow] I got, for a bit I cudna feel mysel' [was insensible], an' whaun I cam' t' mysel', my fegs, [another groan from the gude-sister], I kent what pain was, I'd broke me leg, though I didna ken it than, though I cud hear the bones scrapin' yin 'gainst t'ither, whaun I moved mesel."

(Here such a groan came from Sarah that I fairly jumped). "Weel, the can'le had gone wi' me, but it wasna that black [dark], wi' the licht comin' doon the kitchen-stair, but I cud see the bairrel was lying lang-ways atwixt me an' the cellar-door; gin it hadna rowed [rolled] that way, I micht, wha kens? hae creepit as far as the fut o' the stair, but-ower the bairrel-I sune kent that wasna t' be.

"Weel, I hadna tellt them at hame t' luik for me, thinkin' it wud be a surprise like for the bairns, an' I'd tellt Postie [the postman] that morning no' t' come, an' wha kent what day the mistress wud be hame? It a' came through my heed! An' wi' the strivin', an' the pain, (an' I'll no say but I was ferred) I set mesel' till greet [weep].

"What wud my mither think? an' the bairns? an' the mistress? an' the minister-he was gude t' us a', the minister-wud I be deed afore ony o' them kent? A' at yince there was a fussle i' the strae [straw]-the mistress aye happit [covered] the aipples wi' strae-the rattens! I scraiched than gin I'd no' scraiched afore, for I mindit me o' the auld beggarman they had got, spring was a year, i' the Stronfeggan barn, but no' afore the rattens had yokit him. God Almichtie. He alane kens the way I was in!"

Peggie wiped the sweat from her brow, while the sister-in-law drew in her breath with a sucking sound.

"Weel, I scraiched, an' I scraiched," Peggie went on, "an' whiles I was hot, an' ither whiles I was cauld, but aye the sweat on me, an' than the drouth began, I'd ha'e gied a' I had i' the warld-no' muckle, ye'll be thinkin', but gin ye gie a', the rich can gie nae mair-for a drap watter on my tongue

"Weel, mebbe I sleepit a wee, or hadna a'thegither my heed, or mebbe, it was a dwam [faint]. It was dark whaun I came t' mesel, wi' Tammas, puir beastie-the bairril was nocht for him t climb-duntin' me wi' his heed, he was aifter his afternoon milk, the cratur, but gin I cud keep him there wasna muckle fear o' the rats. "Puir Tammas,' I said, 'puir beastie,' an' gied him a stroke noo an' again, but ilka time I steered there was the pain. Aye, aye, the pain, an' aye the drouth, an' waur an' waur. Mony's the time sin' syne I ha'e thocht till mesel' what Eternity in Hell mun be, whaun an oor or twa here's whiles [sometimes] like so mony year."

"Weel, ae time I greeted, an' anither while I scraiched, an' ae meenute, for the life o' me, I daurna muve mesel', an' the neistfor a' the pain-I'd be tossin' my airms this way an' that. Ae time I pit oot my han' to feel was Tammas still there, whaun I cam' on something roun' an' cauld- a reed Colville, my word, gin I'd never thankit God Almichtie for an aipple afore, I thankit him than, whaun I scrapit my teeth again it— (t' mak' the maist o' 't, ye ken), an' watered my dry mooth; fegs, I can feel the taste o' 't yet!

"Weel, I tossit an' tossit, an' aye the drouth an' aye the pain i' my leg an' back, waur an' waur, and it had been black nicht mony an oor whaun I heerd the kitchen clock chappin' four, an' than I fell t' the coontin', an' coonted I'd been lyin' i' the cellar saxteen weary oors. Than I minded me o' the day, Christmas Day, the day the Saviour o' us a' was born, an' gin I'd ever need o' Him, it seemed t' me it was than, an' I cudna, i' my heart, wrang the Papists for keepin' that birthday.'

Here a groan came from the gude-sister accompanied by an ominous shake of the head.

"Ye needna pit yersel' aboot, Sarah," Peggie said drily, "naebody's axin' you till gang intill a hole wi' rattens." Sarah only answered by another groan.

Weel," Peggie turned to me, "I hadna been wi' the mistress frae Lady-day for nocht. Whiles she tellt me things, an' whiles I had a peep at her buiks for mesel'-onyway, I had learnt this muckle, that the Cawtholics thocht a heap o' the Vargin, there was no twa ways aboot that. Ae thing, an' than anither cam' till my heed, an' than I minded me o' a man I'd read aboot in ane o' the buiks, a decent man, but the world had gane again him, an' he

thocht till pit himsel' oot 't by way o' endin' a' his troubles. Weel, it was awa in foreign pairts, whaur they've statoos, as they ca' them, an' siccan things aboot, an' on his way t' the wall whaur he was thinkin' t' droon himsel', he comes on an image o' the Virgin Mary up in a tree."

Sarah here turned herself, face to the wall.

"The folk kept a lamp aye brennin' afore 't, frae what the buik said, an' as he passed, he seed the oil was dune,' weel, it's the last honour I'll ever pay ye' he says t' himsel', an' awa hame for a drap o' oil an' pit a' recht, an' than awa t' the wall t'en' himsel'. Weel, whaun he got t'the watter, there was a woman stannin' by, so he intill the woods a wee till she'd be awa, but whann he cam' back there she was stannin' still; so he awa again, an' back again, and still she was there. An' than he seed she had a blue cloak till her shoulthers an' a long veil raxing till her feet, an' she wasna touchin' the groun'; so than he kent wha it would be, and that for the drap oil she had come t' save his sowl frae hell. An' he awa hame, an' leeved a gude life, an' deed, as a christian man should, in his bed."

“It is a beautiful story," I said. Peggie had stopped to take breath, and Sarah's face was crimson with suppressed wrath.

"Weel," Peggie went on-her knitting had fallen on her lap, and she spoke with slow deliberation.-"Says It' mesel', I'm a puir crater that, mebbe, kens na recht frae wrang, but gin she'd helpit ane she micht help anither for the sake o' the Maker o' us a' she cairried within her; I kenna weel say whither I speered [asked] her i' sae mony words or no', but "-here came another pause, and then the old woman went on more quickly-" the folks ha'e it I was licht i' the heed, ye ken."

"Sma' mistake aboot that," was muttered from the bed.

"But," Peggie went on, "as sure as I'm sittin' here, an' see yersel' sittin' there, there cam' a licht intill the cellar that wasna can'le licht, whiter mebbe, it's no' easy t' say; it cam' creepin' in soft-like, an' ower agin me I saw the Vargin, but no' the picter the mistress had in her parlour, but wi' the bairn i' her airms an' a croon on the tap o' her heed."

"Ye're daft, Peggie," came with wrath from the sister-in-law, but Peggie paid no attention.

"I kenna whither she spoke t' me, but I ken she smilit i' my face, an' a' the pain gied oot o' me, an' I was intill a sleep like ony tired wean."

There was again a pause which I could not break, but at last Peggie spoke again.

"I kent nae mair till I cam' till mesel' i' the mistress's bed, wi' a pictur o' the Vargin fornent me as I'd seen her i' the cellar, no' a pictur I'd ever seen afore, but yin the Mistress's brither had gien her till bring hame."

I looked at the coloured print over the mantelpiece.

"That vara yin," Peggie nodded. "Weel, ye'll be woner'in' hoo they got me? an' this was the way. Will Hen'erson (him that was drivin' the mistress) luikit in at my faither's Saturday nicht. 'Whaur's Peggie?' says he, 'an' hoo did the Reed Colvilles eat?' (he'd heard the mistress charging me no' till forget them for the bairns.) Peggie?' says my faither. 'Peggie's no' at hame, an' I heard no word o' Reed Colvilles."" An' than the

mischief was oot. It was ten o' the nicht whaun they got me wi' Tammas stannin' ower me, puir bit beast; my faither hae said I was sleepin' like a wean, a bit o' a lauch [laugh] about my mooth, content-like. I hae no' min' o' bein' got mesel'. I lay i' the mistress's best bed, an' she nursit me like a mither, mony and mony a day afore I kent ocht ava.

"See," Peggie took down an old-fashioned silver watch from where it hung on a nail, "the mistress gied me that the first day I was oot o' my bed, an' whaun I left her-for nae faut o' hers or mine-she gied me the pictur'." I could have sworn that Peggie made a little obeisance as she lifted her eyes to look at the Mother of us all.

I looked towards the bed, but Sarah had drawn the blankets over her face. "The woman ought to be a Catholic," I said, recounting Peggie's tale to the Priest of the little mission.

"I suspect she is in good faith," he said, after a little consideration.

As I saw more of Peggie, I came to believe he was right, but the Mother of Mercy did not forget her who had recourse to her in her simple faith in her need. It has always rejoiced my heart to know that it was at the Priest's gate Peggie was "taken " with the "stroke" which caused her death in a very few hours, and that before the summoned relatives could come he had time to do what was needed.

Peggie's picture, bought for a few pence, is now one of Father Murdoch's treasures. FRANCES MAITLAND.

AFTER SEEING M. TISSOT'S PICTURES.*

THIS day is dull and cold and grey

Where art Thou, O my Light, my Day?
Full of discordant voices' strife-

Where speak'st Thou, O my Peace, my Life?

* This wonderful series of five hundred pictures, representing scenes in Our Lord's Life, made after eight years of devout study in the Holy Land, has been exhibited in London with great success. They are to be reproduced in a "Life of Christ" which promises to be one of the most beautiful works of the century.