The Curling Season Lee

bog had not been bearing. A terrible snare this
curling, Mr, Dishart,’’ — here the doctor sighed,
—““JT have known Mr. Duthie wait until mid-
night struck on Sabbath and then be off to
Rashie-bog with a torch.”

“J will go with you,” Gavin said, putting on
his coat.

“Jump in then. You won’t smoke? I never
see a respectable man not smoking, sir, but I feel
indignant with him for such sheer waste of time.”’

Gavin smiled at this, and Snecky Hobart, who
happened to be keeking over the manse dyke,
bore the news to the Tenements.

“Y’ll no sleep the nicht,” Snecky said, “ for
wondering what made the minister lauch. Ay,
it would be no trifle.”

A minister, it is certain, who wore a smile on
his face would never have been called to the
Auld Licht kirk, for life is a wrestle with the
devil, and only the frivolous think to throw him
without taking off their coats. Yet, though
Gavin’s zeal was what the congregation rever-
enced, many loved him privately for his boyish-
ness. He could unbend at marriages, of which
he had six on the last day of the year, and at
every one of them he joked (the same joke) like
a layman. Some did not approve of his playing
at the teetotum for ten minutes with Kitty Dun-
das’s invalid son, but the way Kitty boasted about
it would have disgusted anybody. At the pres-
ent day there are probably a score of Gavins in
Thrums, all called after the little minister, and
there is one Gavinia, whom he hesitated to chris-
ten. He made humorous remarks (the same