"I'm jist feart 'at I come to hate the maister efter ye're no to be seen there, Cosmo.

An' we maunna hate, for that, ye ken,'s the hin 'er en' o' a' thing.

But it wad be a heap easier no to hate him, gien I had naething tu du wi' him." "That maun be confest," answered Cosmo.--"But," he added, "the hairst-play 'ill be here sune, an' syne the hairst itsel'; an' whan ye gang back ye'll hae won ower't." "Na, I doobt no," Cosmo; for, ye sae, as I hae h'ard my father say, the Gracies are a' terrible for min'in'.

Na, there's no forgettin' o' naething.

What for sud onything be forgotten?
It's a cooardly kin' o' a' w'y, to forget." "Some things, I doobt, hae to be forgotten," returned Cosmo, thoughtfully.