'Hae ye heard the sad bruit?' he asked suddenly, 'the causeway's fair ringin' wi't. Puir Tom Macalister, the rich shipper o' Leith, has been found wi' his throat cut lyin' ahint the dyke by the Leith walk. There's an unco scandal afoot anent it—some says a merry-begot o' his ain has done it oot o' revenge for bein' kep' short o' siller by his father.' He paused a moment, then added significantly, 'Ay, ay, Macalister was aye verra generous to the Foundlings' Hospital. Wha kens?' He heaved a sigh, but his eye twinkled satirically, 'The hairt o' man is deceitfu' an' daisperitly wicked,' and he lifted the whites of his eyes heavenward like a hound mourning.

'Was the poor man robbed?' I inquired shortly.

'Ay, was he,' returned my uncle; 'he was seemingly stuffed wi' bank-notes for payin' his men the day. He was gangin' hame after supper—gey fou, maist like. Eh, laddie!' he continued, 'sic an end to ane wha was regairded as belongin' to the Saints! Wae's me for the godly,' and again he lifted his eyes upward as a hound crying u-lu-lu for his lost master. Then he gave me a sharp look, somewhat askance, as he asked me swiftly, 'Whatten a discourse, think ye, will ye get frae your meenister o' the Tron Kirk the morn?'

I blenched, I felt, at this sudden thrust. Had his familiar informed him of my interview?

'It will be a sair blow to him,' I said, with apparent unconcern, 'but it cannot affect him directly.'

'No affect him?' returned my uncle, seemingly shocked at my indifference, 'not when he was aye hand an' glove wi' him?'

'He was no his bairn,' I retorted, hastily finishing off my "parritch" with a gulp. 'I'm late, as ye said,' I added, rising, 'I must be off to my work at the booth.'

'Ay, ay,' returned my uncle, 'wark's aye best in an evil day.'

As soon as my work was finished for the day I hastened to call upon 'the Meenister,' and, finding him at home, at once informed him of my discovery of the night, and of my uncle's satirical mention of poor Mr. Macalister's fate.

'Laddie,' he exclaimed earnestly as I concluded 'ye hae dune well to come to me. Puir Tom Macalister was just as decent, straight-leevin' a Christian man as could be found i' braid Scotland. There's somethin' gey wrang wi' your uncle, I'm fearin' sadly. I'll no let any one blacken the memory o' Thomas Macalister. Noo, laddie, keep ye a quiet watch—sayin' naethin'; but aye wait on wi' eye an' ear for onything further suspeecious at hame, an' if ye hear puir "Brownie" skreighin' come your ways straucht here for me—an' we'll see if we canna tackle the evil—an' with the help o' Heaven, scotch it.' His eye lit, his mouth tightened; he clenched his fist, ready for immediate 'warsil wi' auld Hornie.'