ministered at the orgies of a few drunken tradespeople.

She was seated on the horsehair sofa in the fire-twilight, waiting
for customers, when the face of Galbraith came peering round the
door-cheek.

"Come awa' ben," she said, hospitably, and rose. But as she did so,
she added with a little change of tone, "But I'm thinkin' ye maun
hae forgotten, Sir George. This is Setterday nicht, ye ken; an'
gien it war to be Sunday mornin' afore ye wan to yer bed, it wadna
be the first time, an' ye michtna be up ear eneuch to get yersel
shaved afore kirk time."

She knew as well as George himself that never by any chance did he
go to church; but it was her custom, as I fancy it is that of some
other bulwarks of society and pillars of the church, "for the sake
of example," I presume, to make not unfrequent allusion to certain
observances, moral, religious, or sanatory as if they were laws that
everybody kept.

Galbraith lifted his hand, black, and embossed with cobbler's wax,
and rubbed it thoughtfully over his chin: he accepted the fiction
offered him; it was but the well-known prologue to a hebdomadal
passage between them. What if he did not intend going to church the
next day? Was that any reason why he should not look a little
tidier when his hard week's-work was over, and his nightly habit was
turned into the comparatively harmless indulgence of a Saturday, in
sure hope of the day of rest behind.

"Troth, I didna min' 'at it was Setterday," he answered. "I wuss I