suddenly, making it necessary to send hurriedly to Aberdeen for another to take her place. Five minutes after the train came in with the new one, Mistress MacKenty was spreading the news that it was a man this time, with most extraordinarily thin legs. By noon the next day she was able to tell that he demanded no fewer than two eggs for his breakfast, and that he was bound and determined to conduct the choir practice himself without interference from the minister. So it was clear that he was a feckful man despite his legs.

And his hands on the organ proved this to be true. Jean was filled with a new excitement as the organ woke clamorously and shook itself at his commanding touch. This was playing! This was music worth singing to! The "Tattie-Doolie" would never outsing her again. Here was music that would give her strength to conquer him. The new organist would see who had the longest breath. He would judge who was best fitted to lead the singing.

Her voice rose with clarion strength. The tailor was doing his best also. Jean was reluctantly obliged to admit that there were worse voices than the tailor's. They were nearing the end of the line; now for the struggle! But something was amiss. The last note slipped away from her like an eel, and the next line was in progress before she knew it. She tried to hold on at the end of the next line, but again the organist did n't wait.

Of course he did n't know any better. That was it, Jean reasoned. She would have to wait till the end of the verse to show him. Then he would be glad to hold the note for such a voice. An organist had to be trained

to a singer's ways. Nearing the end she raised her voice so that he could n't help but hear her; but with a loud blast from the quaking pipes he drowned her out and briskly started the next verse.

Dumfounded, she looked across the aisle to see what the "Tattie-Doolie" thought of this. He was glaring furiously at the organist's head. Presently his glance met Jean's, and they gazed at each other in a common bond of indignation. He signaled to her not to sing, and closed his hymnbook emphatically, to show that he meant to be silent. Jean did the same, and he nodded his approval. Exchanging knowing smirks, they waited for the collapse of the singing.

But it was not the hopeless failure they expected it to be: their revenge was no revenge. Nobody missed their singing. The organ sped its multisonous way with the abandon of a calliope at a circus. It cared not a penny who sang or who did n't. Its very abandon was inviting, and they fain would have joined in the singing, but pride forbade them.

The tailor became more and more crestfallen as the service progressed. He fingered his hymn-book longingly, but he could not bring himself to start again.

Seeing his dejection, Jean forgot her own disappointment and yearned over him. She understood only too keenly how he was missing the exaltation of singing to the full capacity of his lungs. She knew only too well the sense of loss he felt, and the bitter hurt to his pride. His emotions found a dual echo in her breast; she was heartsick for herself, but she was doubly heartsick for him. Her one thought was to save his pride for him, to save it at any cost.

like to step in by wi' me for an hour an' sing the hymns?"

He looked full at her for the first, and there was admiration in his eyes. "Ye can play?" he questioned eagerly. "I'd like it fine, if-if-"

Jean knew what he meant.

"My father likes music," she answered.

She was fluttering inside like a nest of young birds, half with joy, and half with fear of her father. But she would go through with it if the heavens were to fall.

As they reached the door, Mistress MacFarlane caught up with them. Being a true woman, she had already decided that Jean's wedding-veil would be at least half a yard longer than the veil of that high-handed lassie of the druggist's had been.

"I'm goin' to play the hymns for Mr. Magregor," Jean explained.

"Aye, aye," said Mistress MacFarlane, with a comfortable, round, pink smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Aye, aye, that will be fine." With an elaborate wink to Jean, she slipped in and up the stairs. Understanding her manoeuver, Jean lingered below until she heard the kitchen door shut quickly, then, knowing that her father was safely imprisoned, she followed, leading the tailor into the heavycurtained, musk-scented parlor.

"What mean ye, woman?" he said. "Man, hae a little sense," she urged, as if speaking to an unreasoning, but lovable, child. "It 's high time that Jean was married-an' there's no room for twa tailors in Drumorty."

So that was it! It was a staggering thought. He sat down in his chair the better to support it. He might have known that she had some bee in her bonnet. She was not a woman to act without a purpose. And she was right. She was quite right. It would be a blessing to have a partner instead

"Sit doon, man, an' stop yer haverin'," she answered, with easy contempt. "Do ye expect yer bairn to go to her grave a maiden?"

"What's that?" cried Perney, with fresh fury. "He wants to marry Jean! He would dare!"

Mistress MacFarlane snorted and elbowed him out of the way with a pitying superiority.

"No," was her cryptic reply, "he has no' dared yet, but he'll dare, come time."

Perney was bewildered. It was hard to maintain his indignation in the face of his wife's dispassionate assurance. She was his rock of strength. He followed in the course she steered, for her steering was always for his betterment. But now she seemed to have turned traitor, and he felt lost. If she would only speak up and tell him her mind! He could always bear her lectures better than her silences. was stepping about the room quietly, as if it were no concern of hers that his rival was here, under his roof.

She

The tailor's voice rose lustily, singing, "Oh, come all ye faithful."

It was more than Perney could bear in silence.

the collars to do! That would be a great relief. The thought made him light-hearted, and he was just about to show her that he saw some reason in her plans, when she said, "Ye can give him the collars to do."

At that he straightened in his chair, on the defensive again. So she knew! She had known all the time! She had lain beside him for thirty years with that secret knowledge in her heart. Despising him, perhaps; yes, despising him. It was n't for Jean she wanted the new tailor; it was because she knew that he could make better collars. She put her trust in the "TattieDoolie," in a stranger, an enemy, and she had turned against him, who had sheltered and loved her for thirty years.

She despised him, did she? Laughed at him? at him? Well, he 'd let her know that there were others that could laugh. He would tell her about the Fraser broth. He would lay her pride in the dust. There would be more than one humble heart in the house this day! He turned toward her to launch his arrow of revenge.

All innocent of her blunder, she was lifting the lid of the broth-pot and