handkerchief in his hand, hiding the head as far as the roots of the
huge horns, asked Ian to go for a walk. They went straight to the
New House. Alister left the head at the door, with his compliments
to Mr. Sercombe.

As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Ian put his arm
through his brother's, but did not speak.

"I know now about turning the other cheek!" said Alister. "--Poor
Euadh!"

"Leave him to the God that made the great head and nimble feet of
him," said Ian. "A God that did not care for what he had made, how
should we believe in! but he who cares for the dying sparrow, may be
trusted with the dead stag."

"Truly, yes," returned Alister.

"Let us sit down," said Ian, "and I will sing you a song I made last
night; I could not sleep after you left me."

Without reply, Alister took a stone by the wayside, and Ian one a
couple of yards from him. This was his song.

LOVE'S HISTORY.

Love, the baby,
Toddled out to pluck a flower;
One said, "No, sir;" one said, "Maybe,
At the evening hour!"