writing notes, hailing passers-by on the street, and attending to his correspondence, all while he was holding personal interviews,—doing half-a-dozen things at once and doing them as though they were holiday sport.

The rush of the day's business kept him from speaking to Jock McPherson until late in the evening, when, at the end of the session meeting, he found himself walking away from the church with Mr. McPherson on one side and his friend, J. P. Thornton, on the other. He felt just a little anxious over the outcome of the interview. He had no fear that Jock would be unwilling to help Angus McRae, but he had every fear, and with good reason, that he would want to do it in his own way. If Jock were in a good humour, he would fall in with the plan, if not, he would do exactly as he pleased and spoil everything.

And, as ill-luck would have it, when they were coming down the steps under the checkered light from the arc-lamp shining through the leaves, Lawyer Ed made the most unfortunate remark he could have chosen.

He was carrying home a Book of Praise under his arm and was humming a psalm in a rich undertone. And the unwise thing he said was: "I'd like to sing the Amen at the end of the psalms, as well as the hymns. What do you say, J. P.?"

"An excellent idea, Ed," said Mr. Thornton heartily. "The psalms would sound much more finished—" He stopped suddenly, realising that they had made a fatal mistake. Mr. McPherson had overheard, and uttered a disgusted snort. For he hated the new appendage to the hymns, and looked upon its importation into the church service much as if the use of incense had been introduced. He was a little man, with a shrewd eye and a slow tongue—but a tongue that could give a deadly thrust when he got ready to use it.

"The Aye-men," he said with great deliberation, and when he was most deliberate, he was most to be feared. "Inteet, and you'll be putting that tail to the end o' the psawlms too." He tapped Lawyer Ed on the arm with his spectacle case. "Jist be waiting a bit till you get permission, young man. You and John Thornton are not jist awl the session."

Mr. McPherson was the senior elder, the champion of all things orthodox, and he was inclined to regard Lawyer Ed and J. P. as irresponsible boys.

"Hoot toot, mon," shouted Lawyer Ed jovially. "What's wrong wi' a bit Aye-men foreby? It's in the Scriptur', 'Let all the people say Amen'—and here you would forbid them!"

Jock was a Highlander, and Lawyer Ed's habit of addressing him in a Lowland dialect was particularly irritating as the mischievous young elder well knew.

"Yus. You know the Scriptures ferry well indeed, but if you would be reading a little farther you will find that it will be saying, 'How shall he that occupieth the room of the unlearned say Amen?'"

This tickled Lawyer Ed and he laughed loudly. "Tut, tut, Jock! It's a small thing to make a fuss about. You and Jimmie McTavish and a lot more of you fellows are dead set against all sorts of things that you accept in the end. Why, man, I can remember the day when you two objected to the little organ in the old church, and you got used to it and liked it."

"I liked it? Indeed, and when would that be?"

"Well, you stopped kicking, anyway, until we got the big one, which was clean unreasonable, whatefer."

"No, sir." Mr. McPherson's spectacle case tapped the younger man's arm peremptorily. "I was perfectly logical then, as I am now. I objected when the wee squeaking thing was brought in, and I objected more when you and the weemin filled up the end o' the church with a machine to turn us all deef. As I say, I was perfectly logical, the greater the organ, the greater the objection."

J. P. hid a smile in the darkness and hastened to interpose, for when Jock once got riding his objection hobby he would agree with nothing under the sun.

"There's an article in the British Weekly on the evolution of the church service—" he began; but his impetuous friend was bent on setting Jock right in his own way, and hastened to his destruction.

"And on the same principle, the more Amen, the more objection, eh?" he cried laughingly. "But now, look here, if you'll only consider this thing with a fair mind you can't help seeing that, as J. P. says, a hymn or a psalm sounds unfinished without an Amen at the end. Take any hymn for example—"

They had reached the McPherson gate by this time, where an arc light, high up in its leafy perch, was sputtering away shedding a white glow over the side-walk and embroidering it with an exquisite pattern worked out in leaf-shadows. Lawyer Ed paused under the lamp and opened the Book of Praise.

"I defy you to find one that isn't improved and finished and rounded off by an Amen at the end." He selected a hymn at random, and sang a stanza in his rich voice that poured itself out gloriously on the evening air.

"Faith and hope and love we see
Joining hands in unity,
But the greatest of the three
And the best is love. Amen."

The beautiful words, sung in Lawyer Ed's melodious voice, were enough to move even Jock's orthodox heart. He was silent for a moment, then the noise of a window being raised above their heads interrupted.

Mrs. McPherson was accustomed to after-session meetings, and noisy ones too, at her gate. But when they were accompanied by singing and shouting, at the disgraceful hour of eleven P. M. she felt it time to interfere. So she opened the window noisily and enquired if there was a fire anywhere.

There was. It blazed up in Lawyer Ed's heart, so enraged was he at this very inopportune interruption, coming just when he thought he saw Jock wavering. He shouted at her to go in and mind her own business.

No one in Algonquin heeded what Lawyer Ed said when he was angry, but Mr. McPherson was in no mood to put up with even him. He became deadly slow and deliberate. He turned his back on the turbulent young man, and addressed the open window:

"No, it will not be a fire, Mary," he called. "It's just an Eerishman got loose, and we'll haf to let him talk off his noise. He reminds me," he continued, still addressing the window, though it had closed with a bang, "he reminds me of that Chersey cow, my Cousin McNabb had in Islay. She wasn't much for giffin' milk, and it was vurry thin at that, but she was a great musician. You could hear her bawlin' across two concessions."

J. P. Thornton was a jolly young Englishman, very prone to mirth, and this was too much for him. He turned traitor and laughed aloud. Lawyer Ed glared angrily at him; but Jock's face underwent a peculiar twist. He had had no notion of saying anything witty, he had been too angry for that; but he had learned by experience that he never knew when he was going to make a joke. He was often surprised in the midst of a speech by a burst of laughter from his friends, Lawyer Ed generally first. Then he would pause and survey the path he had travelled, to find that all unconsciously he had stumbled upon a humorous vein. So when J. P. laughed he stopped to consider. The enemy flew to defend his "bawlin'" and there was no time to see if he really had made a joke. But he was suspicious, and the suspicion put him into a good humour. A sudden inspiration seized him; he caught the book Lawyer Ed was brandishing and, opening it, laid it carefully on the top of the gate-post.

"It's more feenished and rounded off, with the 'Aye-men, is it?" he enquired with deep sarcasm. "But you would not be feenishing it after all. If ye're bound and deturmined to put a tail on the end o' the hime, why don't ye sing awl that's in the book. You would be leaving out a bit."

He took his glasses from their case, fitted them on, and held the book carefully towards the electric light.

"If ye want it feenished, this is the way it should be sung."

Now, not even Mrs. Jock, who believed her husband the cleverest man in Algonquin, could say he was a singer, and it was with a terribly