seized hold upon the soul of the unhappy student.

'My God!' he cried, 'but what have I done? and when did I
begin? To be made a class assistant - in the name of reason,

where's the harm in that? Service wanted the position;
Service might have got it. Would HE have been where I am

now?'
'My dear fellow,' said Macfarlane, 'what a boy you are! What

harm HAS come to you? What harm CAN come to you if you hold
your tongue? Why, man, do you know what this life is? There

are two squads of us - the lions and the lambs. If you're a
lamb, you'll come to lie upon these tables like Gray or Jane

Galbraith; if you're a lion, you'll live and drive a horse
like me, like K-, like all the world with any wit or courage.

You're staggered at the first. But look at K-! My dear
fellow, you're clever, you have pluck. I like you, and K-

likes you. You were born to lead the hunt; and I tell you,
on my honour and my experience of life, three days from now

you'll laugh at all these scarecrows like a High School boy
at a farce.'

And with that Macfarlane took his departure and drove off up
the wynd in his gig to get under cover before daylight.

Fettes was thus left alone with his regrets. He saw the
miserable peril in which he stood involved. He saw, with

inexpressible dismay, that there was no limit to his
weakness, and that, from concession to concession, he had

fallen from the arbiter of Macfarlane's destiny to his paid
and helpless accomplice. He would have given the world to

have been a little braver at the time, but it did not occur
to him that he might still be brave. The secret of Jane

Galbraith and the cursed entry in the day-book closed his
mouth.

Hours passed; the class began to arrive; the members of the
unhappy Gray were dealt out to one and to another, and

received without remark. Richardson was made happy with the
head; and before the hour of freedom rang Fettes trembled

with exultation to perceive how far they had already gone
toward safety.

For two days he continued to watch, with increasing joy, the
dreadful process of disguise.

On the third day Macfarlane made his appearance. He had been
ill, he said; but he made up for lost time by the energy with

which he directed the students. To Richardson in particular
he extended the most valuableassistance and advice, and that

student, encouraged by the praise of the demonstrator, burned
high with ambitious hopes, and saw the medal already in his

grasp.
Before the week was out Macfarlane's prophecy had been

fulfilled. Fettes had outlived his terrors and had forgotten
his baseness. He began to plume himself upon his courage,

and had so arranged the story in his mind that he could look
back on these events with an unhealthy pride. Of his

accomplice he saw but little. They met, of course, in the
business of the class; they received their orders together

from Mr. K-. At times they had a word or two in private, and
Macfarlane was from first to last particularly kind and

jovial. But it was plain that he avoided any reference to
their common secret; and even when Fettes whispered to him

that he had cast in his lot with the lions and foresworn the
lambs, he only signed to him smilingly to hold his peace.

At length an occasion arose which threw the pair once more
into a closer union. Mr. K- was again short of subjects;

pupils were eager, and it was a part of this teacher's
pretensions to be always well supplied. At the same time

there came the news of a burial in the rustic graveyard of
Glencorse. Time has little changed the place in question.

It stood then, as now, upon a cross road, out of call of
human habitations, and buried fathom deep in the foliage of

six cedar trees. The cries of the sheep upon the
neighbouring hills, the streamlets upon either hand, one

loudly singing among pebbles, the other dripping furtively
from pond to pond, the stir of the wind in mountainous old

flowering chestnuts, and once in seven days the voice of the
bell and the old tunes of the precentor, were the only sounds

that disturbed the silence around the rural church. The
Resurrection Man - to use a byname of the period - was not to

be deterred by any of the sanctities of customary piety. It
was part of his trade to despise and desecrate the scrolls

and trumpets of old tombs, the paths worn by the feet of
worshippers and mourners, and the offerings and the

inscriptions of bereaved affection. To rustic
neighbourhoods, where love is more than commonly tenacious,

and where some bonds of blood or fellowship unite the entire
society of a parish, the body-snatcher, far from being

repelled by natural respect, was attracted by the ease and
safety of the task. To bodies that had been laid in earth,

in joyfulexpectation of a far different awakening, there
came that hasty, lamp-lit, terror-haunted resurrection of the

spade and mattock. The coffin was forced, the cerements
torn, and the melancholy relics, clad in sackcloth, after

being rattled for hours on moonless byways, were at length
exposed to uttermost indignities before a class of gaping

boys.
Somewhat as two vultures may swoop upon a dying lamb, Fettes

and Macfarlane were to be let loose upon a grave in that
green and quiet resting-place. The wife of a farmer, a woman

who had lived for sixty years, and been known for nothing but
good butter and a godly conversation, was to be rooted from

her grave at midnight and carried, dead and naked, to that
far-away city that she had always honoured with her Sunday's

best; the place beside her family was to be empty till the
crack of doom; her innocent and almost venerable members to

be exposed to that last curiosity of the anatomist.
Late one afternoon the pair set forth, well wrapped in cloaks

and furnished with a formidable bottle. It rained without
remission - a cold, dense, lashing rain. Now and again there

blew a puff of wind, but these sheets of falling water kept
it down. Bottle and all, it was a sad and silent drive as

far as Penicuik, where they were to spend the evening. They
stopped once, to hide their implements in a thick bush not

far from the churchyard, and once again at the Fisher's
Tryst, to have a toast before the kitchen fire and vary their

nips of whisky with a glass of ale. When they reached their
journey's end the gig was housed, the horse was fed and

comforted, and the two young doctors in a private room sat
down to the best dinner and the best wine the house afforded.

The lights, the fire, the beating rain upon the window, the
cold, incongruous work that lay before them, added zest to

their enjoyment of the meal. With every glass their
cordiality increased. Soon Macfarlane handed a little pile

of gold to his companion.
'A compliment,' he said. 'Between friends these little d-d

accommodations ought to fly like pipe-lights.'
Fettes pocketed the money, and applauded the sentiment to the

echo. 'You are a philosopher,' he cried. 'I was an ass till
I knew you. You and K- between you, by the Lord Harry! but