"when you always reject them. But, mon Dieu, I think it's a sign of grace in Peattie to keep out of your way." "Poor young fellow," Lockhart said. "It's a dreadful thing to see a clever young birkie like that aiming at getting a footing in Society." They went on to speak of Dunton-Watts and Francis Thompson, and from that to the paintings of Boutet de Monvel, and thence to Franz Stüch, and thence to insanity and crime in the city of Glasgow. Lockhart reeled off a quantity of statistics, adding up columns of figures, multiplying, dividing, finding percentages, to the awe of Martin, who had the gift of multiplying two by two, and finding the product nine. Then they passed on to the city drainage. On this subject, too, Martin was ignorant, having the idea that a drain was a big hole which was always just going to be filled up, and which contained a workman and (he thought) some blue and pink asbestos. He listened with downcast eyes to Lockhart's rebuke, which was all for his good. They spoke next of Lamalle. Drains naturally suggested Lamalle, the artist remarked; and Lockhart rebuked him again, but with none of the sorrowful anger he had shown on the sewerage question. This time he said, "Oh, I say-oh ha—ha—ha !” and pulled Martin's moustaches, which lay like two little bands of dark brown velvet on his pale face. Awaking, Quinton thought of a bell he had once heard at sea, swinging in the mist of sky and water; and of the music of his sister's piano-Bach's Gigue in G―rising to him as he read Flore's letter of farewell. For he heard Lockhart's voice, distant at first, then nearer and nearer, in the yellow-grey desolation; a sweet, manly voice, that never softened to a millionaire or to a title, nor hardened to a beggar or criminal; ; that would unfalteringly repeat the blackest truths of the richest man or the fairest woman in the city; that had sung in the Folies Bergères-and in worse places, Giselle Lamalle said; that carried always a suggestion of comfort, and perfect comprehension, and fatherly tenderness. Quinton listened to it hungrily. He bethought himself of the column in which the editor of the Excalibur replied to questions and solved doubts on every subject from love and agnosticism down (or up) to neckties. He had written to it himself before he had seen Lockhart. Everyone else went by on the other side. He leaned forward in the dimness. His cold hands were stretched out. He strained his ear to hear something; something to bring back the light, to lift the awful mist, to make the world again warm, and coloured, and human; to bury the horrible dead thing he carried about with him, to wipe out the reproach; to hide the brand of failure-blood-red, bloodred! to shut the reproving eyes of the men for whom he ought to have done something beautiful. He listened. "Those white waistcoats he wears," Lockhart said," are excruciatingly hideous.” SIR DOUGLAS MACLAGAN. NAR beyond the domestic home and the inner circle of his intimate friends, there was heartfelt sorrow manifested when it became known on the morning of Friday, 6th April, that the venerable physician and kind friend had succumbed to the weakness of old age. Although his long life of usefulness and distinction spoke for itself, and needs no eulogium, neighbours and friends alike desire to keep his memory green by cherishing a fond remembrance of the man so able, largehearted, patriotic; so typical of the all-round Scotchman that we look in vain for his compeer. A native of Ayrshire, he had a life-long affection for his birthplace, as he had for the city of his adoption, wherein his best years were spent, and where his ashes and those of his family and kindred now repose. Peculiarly happy in his upbringing and education, Sir Douglas advanced step by step along the arduous road of learning, and when he came to teach others those lessons he had so thoroughly made his own, pupils flocked to the classes of a lecturer and professor in whom they had thorough confidence, and for whom they had the respect due to his well-established eminence. During the long-continued period that he was a visiting doctor, his patients knew they were in the hands of a man of skill, zealous for their welfare, assiduous in his anxiety for their recovery to health, cheered by his voice, his benignant presence, and the numerous, but unobtrusive demonstrations of friendship that, with his wellknown tact, he managed to throw into his professional visits. Sir Douglas was remarkable for the rapidity of his diagnosis, none the less efficient because it was quick; and having ascertained what was at fault, he proceeded in his kindly way to advise, prescribe, and counsel, so that the patient and his friends took heart, and if not an incurable case, there was, with a more or less period of convalescence, the ultimate restoration to health. With no less sagacity did he deal with those numerous cases of consultation that were taken up when in due time he rose to the higher position of his noble profession. Like all true physicians, he set his face against the unnecessary or undue taking of drugs, and was in true sympathy with the advice so well given in these lines: "Better to hunt in fields for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught;" but when bona fide weakness or distress of any kind was made manifest to his keen perception, he was equally in touch with the sentiment of humanity : "A wise physician, skilled our wounds to heal, And whether it should be treatment at home, or a voyage abroad, a sojourn in the Riviera, or a trial of Malvern, Cheltenham, and Torquay, his patients found that Dr. Maclagan's advice seldom, if ever, failed to bring to them beneficial results, for which they had cause for lasting gratitude. In his earlier career of Lecturer at the College of Surgeons, and subsequently as Professor of Medical Jurisprudence in our University, Sir Douglas imbued his students with a love of the profession for which they were studying. They could not fail to grasp the subject he so lucidly expounded, nor to appreciate the personal interest he took in each and all of the students, many of whom were wont to share the profuse hospitality dispensed at his house in Heriot Row. Another pet theory of this distinguished doctor (exemplified by his personal practice) was that a physician, however devoted to his profession, was all the better for being a versatile man, accustomed discreetly to take his recreation in music, literature, sport, travel, and all the other fields open to individual taste. He strenuously advocated variety, while enjoining faithful assiduity to steady professional work, inculcating on his friends and his students the advice, "Be a professional worker, but not a professional slave." Gifted with an exquisitely pure tenor voice, his singing in the choir of St. Stephen's Church elevated that part of the service, as it did the programme of the concerts, where he sang in company with Sir Robert Christison and Dr. Peddie. At private parties where he was a guest, the company were not satisfied until Sir Douglas had contributed several of his favourite songs in German or English, often adding as a sequel some well-known comic ditty wherein he was equally proficient. As a teller of humorous stories, he was in the front rank, and, being an equally good listener, he appreciated the comic vein of the many men of wit who, during the last three-quarters of a century, have enlivened our social gatherings. Not content, however, with the racy conversation, the outpouring of wit that enlivened many a dinner-party of professors, doctors, lawyers, and literary men, Sir Douglas courted the muse, chiefly in the comic vein, and threw off some well-rhymed songs on subjects that came readily to hand incidental to his professional rounds or to the recreations of the country. In his well-known "Battle of Glen Tilt," so cleverly illustrated by the artists of the day, we have in playful measure the story of unanticipated obstruction by the Duke of Athole of Professor Balfour and his botanical students in Glen Tilt: "The Duke, he glower'd in through the yet, 'Twas trespass clear Their comin' here, For they wad fear Awa' his deer Amang the Hielan' hills, man. 'Balfour, he said it was absurd: The Duke was in a rage, man; He said he wadna hear a word, Although they spak' an age, man. The mair they fleeched, the mair they spoke, Balfour micht tak' An' carry back His Saxon pack Ayont the Hielan' hills, man. "The gangin' back was easier said Wi' a guffaw, An' left the Hielan' hills, man. "The battle it was ended then, Ye'd been this hour Ayont the po'er O' lawyers dour, Gang through your Hielan' hills, man." Transferring the scene to the Continent, where so many sufferers happily get rid of their ailments, or have their sufferings mitigated, the Doctor, in genial vein, took up the subject in verse, knowing that to humour his patient would be going a long way to make the cure more complete. Although Sir Douglas, during his long life, was a remarkably healthy man, he was not altogether free of the ills that flesh is heir to, and had both in his own home and at health resorts abroad to |