“S-sartinly, th-that’s right.  I don’t like to look around, wh-when I take the ker-cup at the Sacrament, and see any man that I’ve wronged; an’ I don’t f-feel comf’table nuther to see anybody der-drinkin’ from the same cup that I think has tried to w-wrong me or mine.”

“You can save yourself that anxiety about Mr. Clamp, Uncle,” said Mark.  “He is not so much concerned about our Christian fellowship as he is about his fees.  He couldn’t live here, if he didn’t manage to keep on both sides of every little quarrel in town.  Having done me what mischief he could, he wants now to salve the wound over.”

“My young friend, what is the reason of this heat?” asked Mr. Clamp, mildly.

“I don’t care to talk further,” Mark retorted.  “I might as well explain the pathology of flesh bruises to a donkey who had maliciously kicked me.”

Mr. Clamp wiped his bald head, on which the perspiration was beginning to gather.  His stock of pious commonplaces was exhausted, and he saw no prospect of calming Mark’s rage, or of making any deep impression on the blacksmith.  He therefore rose to depart.  “Good evening,” said he.  “I pray you may become more reasonable, and less disposed to judge harshly of your friend and brother.”

Mark turned his back on him.  Mr. Hardwick civilly bade him good-night.  Lizzy and Anna, who had retreated during the war of words, came back, and the circle round the table was renewed.

“Yer-you’ll see one thing,” said Mr. Hardwick.  “He’ll b-bring you, and p’r’aps me, too, afore the church for this talk.”

“The sooner, the better,” said Mark.

“I d’no,” said Mr. Hardwick.  “Ef we must live in f-fellowship, a der-diffi-culty in church isn’t per-pleasant.  But ’tis uncomf’table for straight wood to be ker-corded up with such ker-crooked sticks as him.”

[To be continued.]

A PERILOUS BIVOUAC.

It is a pleasant June morning out on the Beauport slopes; the breeze comes laden with perfume from shady Mount Lilac; and it is good to bask here in the meadows and look out upon the grand panorama of Quebec, with its beautiful bay sweeping in bold segments of shoreline to the mouth of the River St Charles.  The king-bird, too lazy to give chase to his proper quarry, the wavering butterfly, sways to and fro upon a tall weed; and there, at the bend of the brook, sits an old kingfisher on a dead branch, gorged with his morning meal, and regardless of his reflected image in the still pool beneath.  The goguelu[1] rises suddenly up from his tuft of grass, and, having sung a few staves of his gurgling song, drops down again like a cricket-ball and is no more seen.  Smooth-plumaged wax-wings are pruning their feathers in the tamarac-trees; and high up over the waters of the bay sails a long-winged fish-hawk, taking an extended and generally liberal view of sundry important matters connected with the fishery question.