cheer. "This is comfortable enough. What's that you were reading?"
Janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly confidence.
"It's a book I getten fro' th' Broxton Chapel Sunday Skoo'. Its th' Mem—m-e-rn-o-i-r-s——"
"Memoirs," responded Murdoch.
"Memoyers of Mary Ann Gibbs."
Unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on the subject of the Broxton Chapel literature. He cast about him mentally, but with small success.
"I don't seem to have heard of it before," was the conclusion he arrived at.
"Hannot yo'? Well, it's a noice book, an' theer's lots more like it in th' skoo' libery—aw about Sunday skoo' scholars as has consumption an' th' loike an' reads th' boible to foalk an' dees. They aw on 'em dee."
"Oh," doubtfully, but still with respect. "It's not very cheerful, is it?"
Janey shook her head with an expression of mature resignation.
"Eh no! they're none on 'em cheerful—but they're noice to read. This here un now—she had th' asthma an' summat wrong wi' her legs, an' she knowed aw' th' boible through aside o' th' hymn-book, an' she'd sing aw th' toime when she could breathe fur th' asthma, an' tell foak as if they did na go an' do likewise they'd go to burnin' hell wheer th' fire is na quenched an' th' worms dyeth not."
"It can't have been very pleasant for the friends," was her companion's comment. But there was nothing jocose about his manner. He was balancing himself seriously
