O little Bethlem！ poor in walls， But rich in furniture.
JOHN MASON'S Spiritual Songs.
There was one great alleviation to the various discomforts of Sutherland's tutor-life. It was， that， except during school-hours， he was expected to take no charge whatever of his pupils. They ran wild all other times； which was far better， in every way， both for them and for him. Consequently， he was entirely his own master beyond the fixed margin of scholastic duties； and he soon found that his absence， even from the table， was a matter of no interest to the family. To be sure， it involved his own fasting till the next meal-time came round--for the lady was quite a household martinet；but that was his own concern.
That very evening， he made his way to David's cottage， about the country supper-time， when he thought he should most likely find him at home. It was a clear， still， moonlit night， with just an air of frost. There was light enough for him to see that the cottage was very neat and tidy， looking， in the midst of its little forest， more like an English than a Scotch habitation. He had had the advantage of a few months' residence in a leafy region on the other side of the Tweed， and so was able to make the comparison. But what a different leafage that was from this！ That was soft， floating， billowy； this hard， stiff， and straight-lined， interfering so little with the skeleton form， that it needed not to be put off in the wintry season of death， to make the trees in harmony with the landscape. A light was burning in the cottage， visible through the inner curtain of muslin， and the outer one of frost. As he approached the door， he heard the sound of a voice； and from the even pitch of the tone， he concluded at once that its owner was reading aloud. The measured cadence soon convinced him that it was verse that was being read； and the voice was evidently that of David， and not of Margaret. He knocked at the door. The voice ceased， chairs were pushed back， and a heavy step approached. David opened the door himself.
"Eh！ Maister Sutherlan'，" said he， "I thocht it micht aiblins be yersel. Ye're welcome， sir. Come butt the hoose. Our place is but sma'， but ye'll no min' sitttin' doon wi' our ain sels. Janet， ooman， this is Maister Sutherlan'. Maggy， my doo， he's a frien' o' yours， o' a day auld， already. Ye're kindly welcome， Maister Sutherlan'. I'm sure it's verra kin' o' you to come an' see the like o' huz."As Hugh entered， he saw his own bright volume lying on the table， evidently that from which David had just been reading.
Margaret had already placed for him a cushioned arm-chair， the only comfortable one in the house； and presently， the table being drawn back， they were all seated round the peat-fire on the hearth， the best sort for keeping feet warm at least. On the crook， or hooked iron-chain suspended within the chimney， hung a three-footed pot， in which potatoes were boiling away merrily for supper. By the side of the wide chimney， or more properly lum， hung an iron lamp， of an old classical form common to the country， from the beak of which projected， almost horizontally， the lighted wick--the pith of a rush. The light perched upon it was small but clear， and by it David had been reading. Margaret sat right under it， upon a creepie， or small three-legged wooden stool. Sitting thus， with the light falling on her from above， Hugh could not help thinking she looked very pretty. Almost the only object in the distance from which the feeble light was reflected， was the patch-work counterpane of a little bed filling a recess in the wall， fitted with doors which stood open. It was probably Margaret's refuge for the night.
"Well，" said the tutor， after they had been seated a few minutes， and had had some talk about the weather--surely no despicable subject after such a morning--the first of Spring--"well， how do you like the English poet， Mr. Elginbrod？""Spier that at me this day week， Maister Sutherlan'， an' I'll aiblins answer ye； but no the nicht， no the nicht.""What for no？" said Hugh， taking up the dialect.
"For ae thing， we're nae clean through wi' the auld sailor's story yet； an' gin I hae learnt ae thing aboon anither， its no to pass jeedgment upo' halves. I hae seen ill weather half the simmer， an' a thrang corn-yard after an' a'， an' that o' the best. No that I'm ill pleased wi' the bonny ballant aither.""Weel， will ye jist lat me read the lave o't till ye？""Wi' muckle pleesur， sir， an' mony thanks."
He showed Hugh how far they had got in the reading of the "Ancient Mariner"； whereupon he took up the tale， and carried it on to the end. He had some facility in reading with expression， and his few affectations--for it must be confessed he was not free of such faults--were not of a nature to strike uncritical hearers. When he had finished， he looked up， and his eye chancing to light upon Margaret first， he saw that her cheek was quite pale， and her eyes overspread with the film， not of coming tears， but of emotion notwithstanding.
"Well，" said Hugh， again， willing to break the silence， and turning towards David， "what do you think of it now you have heard it all？"Whether Janet interrupted her husband or not， I cannot tell； but she certainly spoke first：
"Tsh鈜ah！"--equivalent to pshaw--"it's a' lees. What for are ye knittin' yer broos ower a leein' ballant--a' havers as weel as lees？""I'm no jist prepared to say sae muckle， Janet，" replied David；"there's mony a thing 'at's lees， as ye ca't， 'at's no lees a' through. Ye see， Maister Sutherlan'， I'm no gleg at the uptak， an' it jist taks me twise as lang as ither fowk to see to the ootside o' a thing. Whiles a sentence 'ill leuk to me clean nonsense a'thegither； an' maybe a haill ook efter， it'll come upo' me a' at ance； an' fegs！ it's the best thing in a' the beuk."Margaret's eyes were fixed on her father with a look which I can only call faithfulness， as if every word he spoke was truth， whether she could understand it or not.
"But perhaps we may look too far for meanings sometimes，" suggested Sutherland.
