Old Ewan's spirits sank yet lower year by year, but he lived on peacefully enough. As time went by, he talked less, and his humid eyes seemed to look within in degree as they grew dim to things without. But the day came at length when the Old man died in his chair, before the slum berous peat fire on the hearth, quietly, silently, without a movement, his graspless fingers fumbling a worm-eaten hour glass, his long waves of thin white hair falling over his droop ing shoulders, and his upturned eyes fixed in a stony stare on the text carved on the rannel-tree shelf, God's Provi dence is mine inheritance.

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