and he dare not speak of it. He had a secret that he believed was shared by no one. It was this: he did n't know how the collar of a coat should be cut! For although he had been fully thirtyfive when his father had died and left him the tailoring business, he had never up to that moment either cut or fitted a collar. It had been the elder MacFarlane's belief that his son was a witless warlock, who was by nature bound to ruin any piece of cloth into which he put a pair of shears.

In time he begrudgingly, and with loud-voiced distrust, allowed Perney to cut and fit trousers, and at a pinch, when his eyes began to trouble him, he would prayerfully let him work on a portion of a coat; but never to his last day would he let him touch a collar.

So Perney inherited the business with a perfect knowledge of trousers, a partial knowledge of waistcoats, and a complete ignorance of collars; for so jealous was old MacFarlane of this knowledge that he had always retired behind a screen for the cutting and fitting of this mystic portion of the garment.

On the first day he was alone Perney had embarked on a series of experiments. From then on, every suit he cut was a hazard, an adventure. This much he suspected about collars: something had to be cut on the crosswise, and something had to be stretched. But which had to be stretched, which had to be cut crosswise, he never was able to find out. Sometimes he did it one way, and sometimes the other, but little satisfaction resulted. When, occasionally, the miracle happened, and he would produce a collar that did neither stick

out at the back like a spout, nor shy away from the neck in a coy semicircle, he had always forgotten how he had cut that particular collar, and, try as he would, he could n't duplicate it.

Perney had never told this to a soul, not even his wife; nay, least of all his wife. But sometimes he wondered uneasily if she knew. There was something too impassioned in the way she defended him when a customer complained that the collar did n't fit. It looked like something more than chance that brought her hurrying down the stairs just in the nick of time, and there was something more than affability in her voice when she exclaimed to the customer upon her entrance, "My certies, but that jacket brings out the breadth o' yer shoulders!" If, in the face of her evident admiration, the customer still murmured that the collar did n't set to his neck, her voice became a shade scornful as she replied:

"Think ye the collar 's human? How would it know where yer neck is? Hae patience and wear it a while, and come time, it will grow to the set o' yer body." And if he still complained, she would deride him playfully, crying: "Certies, man, expect ye the collar to grip yer neck like yer lass' arm?" If this did n't send him away with his face red and the suit under his arm, she could go even further.

It was not so easy with the young ones who had been to Aberdeen to take the agricultural course at the university. They were "very notional," and would bring a suit back again and again for alterations. But smart though they were, they hated to encounter Mistress MacFarlane, and would peep in at the window first to see that she was out of the way. But

in the end she would always vanquish them. And it is a tribute to her eloquence that they sometimes came to agree with her that "a collar could na be expected to fit until you had worn it six months."

In all the twenty-five years Perney had never had a suit left on his hands, but he knew well where the credit lay for that.

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He spent long hours turning it over in his mind. Did she truly believe that his collars were perfect and his customers sorely wanting in sense? Or did she know all the time that he could n't cut a collar? But, no, that thought smarted too keenly. She would never be able to keep from telling him if she knew. He knew women, with their tongues always wagwagging. She 'd cast it in his face in one of her tempers. She'd never be able to hold it back. No, she did n't know. Of course she did n't know. But why, then, did she never mention collars when they were alone? Because she thinks I can cut them. cause she knows I can't. It was plausible either way. She knows. She does n't. She knows. She does n't. For hours his needle would flash out and in to this torturous refrain. Overhead he would hear her, heavy-footed, going back and forth about her work. Many times he had risen from his bench, determined to go up and have it out. Or sitting by her in the evenings, he had often been tempted to break the long silence by shouting the one word "Collars!" just to see what she would do. But he never dared carry out his resolve, because he could n't bear to learn that she knew.

Most of the time he was comforted by the thought that she did n't know,

and he loved her fiercely for her blind faith in him. But on occasions when she would defend him too loudly, he was convinced that she knew. And he tortured himself by the thought that she despised him in her heart. At such times he almost hated her not only for the knowledge she had, but that she was strong enough never to give it voice.

One thing made it bearable: he could laugh at her. She had a notion about the making of broth. Nay, more than a notion, it was a belief as dear to her heart as her religion. And he knew it to be founded on folly.

Mistress MacFarlane was a Fraser, and the Frasers had always held the reputation of making the best Sunday broth-with-dumplings in the parish. It was their crown. How to make it was their secret. It necessitated the constant attention, for the whole forenoon, of a member of the family. This meant that some one must stay away from the kirk during the morning service; and as this mortification seemed to be borne more cheerfully by the male portion of the family, it came to be a tradition that the Fraser men were a godless ilk that would rather tend broth than praise the Lord. Indeed, one minister had even preached a sermon on setting up graven images, and it was clear that he exhorted the Fraser family to choose between their broth and the Kingdom of Heaven. But it was useless.

So, the Sunday morning after his marriage, Perney learned the secret of the Fraser broth. His wife told him every detail, as indeed she had continued to tell him every detail every Sunday morning since, for somehow she could never believe that he could retain all its intricacies; and never

once did she fail to come back from the door-step to repeat, "Mind ye now, quarter of an hour apart."

That was the secret! Other benighted Drumortians put everything into the pot at once, but the Frasers first boiled a shin-bone in the water for half an hour, then added the turnips. A quarter of an hour later the carrots went in, and so on, until finally the dumplings.

Before leaving for the kirk, Mistress MacFarlane would arrange the different vegetables in bowls and set them in a row leading away from the fire. Just before tying her bonnetstrings, she would drop the bone into the water and remind him, "The bowl next the fire goes in first."

It was a ritual gone through with much gusto on her part and great patience on the part of Perney.

At first he had blundered, forgetting this or that, or he would go down to the shop to play a solitary game of chess and forget the broth altogether, and bowls of raw vegetables would betray him to his wrathful wife upon her return. One Sunday, in a flush of rebellion, he had dumped the contents of all the bowls into the pot the moment she was off the door-step, and thumped defiantly down-stairs to play chess. But he had little peace that morning, for, despite himself, he believed in the superiority of the Fraser broth. He was apprehensive about its flavor, and in two minds whether to confess or not, until they sat down to the table and Mistress MacFarlane, taking the first spoonful, exclaimed, just as she always did, just as every Fraser always did, "My, that 's fine broth!" And he agreed, just as the spouse of every Fraser always agreed. He never let a hint of what he had done cross his

lips; after that his Sunday mornings were tranquil.

But now Perney was troubled. The arrival of the new tailor sharpened his anxiety about the collars, for not only might his wife discover the truth, but soon all Drumorty might know. He tortured himself by attributing to his rival great skill in collar-making, and by magnifying his own lack of skill. Soon the sight of a new suit, with the collar snugly fitting the neck, justified his fears. And with every day came discouraging news of another customer gone over to the enemy. Fear was added to fear as orders came in more and more slowly. Even the report that the "Tattie-Doolie" could n't hang trousers did n't bring the consolation it should have. He began to lean on Jean, seeking comfort in the increasing scorn she expressed for the "Tattie-Doolie," for Jean's emotion was growning more keen with each Sunday. She existed from week to week in a fever of anticipation. She lived only for those moments when they faced each other across the aisle in combat. One morning he was late, and she was beside herself for fear he would not come. At his sudden appearance her heart raced in an intoxication of something; she called it hatred.

After the services, when she reached home, she would deride him with a wit that delighted Perney, and with a venom that surprised herself. But sometimes, following these outbursts, she would go to her room and cry helplessly, and she knew that she was not crying because he had outsung her.

$ 4

There is no knowing how it might have ended had not the organist died

suddenly, making it necessary to send hurriedly to Aberdeen for another to take her place. Five minutes after the train came in with the new one, Mistress MacKenty was spreading the news that it was a man this time, with most extraordinarily thin legs. By noon the next day she was able to tell that he demanded no fewer than two eggs for his breakfast, and that he was bound and determined to conduct the choir practice himself without interference from the minister. So it was clear that he was a feckful man despite his legs.

And his hands on the organ proved this to be true. Jean was filled with a new excitement as the organ woke clamorously and shook itself at his commanding touch. This was playing! This was music worth singing to! The "Tattie-Doolie" would never outsing her again. Here was music that would give her strength to conquer him. The new organist would see who had the longest breath. He would judge who was best fitted to lead the singing.

Her voice rose with clarion strength. The tailor was doing his best also. Jean was reluctantly obliged to admit that there were worse voices than the tailor's. They were nearing the end of the line; now for the struggle! But something was amiss. The last note slipped away from her like an eel, and the next line was in progress before she knew it. She tried to hold on at the end of the next line, but again the organist did n't wait.

Of course he did n't know any better. That was it, Jean reasoned. She would have to wait till the end of the verse to show him. Then he would be glad to hold the note for such a voice. An organist had to be trained

to a singer's ways. Nearing the end she raised her voice so that he could n't help but hear her; but with a loud blast from the quaking pipes he drowned her out and briskly started the next verse.

Dumfounded, she looked across the aisle to see what the "Tattie-Doolie" thought of this. He was glaring furiously at the organist's head. Presently his glance met Jean's, and they gazed at each other in a common bond of indignation. He signaled to her not to sing, and closed his hymnbook emphatically, to show that he meant to be silent. Jean did the same, and he nodded his approval. Exchanging knowing smirks, they waited for the collapse of the singing.

But it was not the hopeless failure they expected it to be: their revenge was no revenge. Nobody missed their singing. The organ sped its multisonous way with the abandon of a calliope at a circus. It cared not a penny who sang or who did n't. Its very abandon was inviting, and they fain would have joined in the singing, but pride forbade them.

The tailor became more and more crestfallen as the service progressed. He fingered his hymn-book longingly, but he could not bring himself to start again.

Seeing his dejection, Jean forgot her own disappointment and yearned over him. She understood only too keenly how he was missing the exaltation of singing to the full capacity of his lungs. She knew only too well the sense of loss he felt, and the bitter hurt to his pride. His emotions found a dual echo in her breast; she was heartsick for herself, but she was doubly heartsick for him. Her one thought was to save his pride for him, to save it at any cost.