Din ton, hur stark, hur ljuf, hur ren! En altareld som ingen flaegt fa stoera, Och dock en storm som sjalens djup kan roera, En glod som smalta kan "de visas sten": Sa aer din ton sa stark, sa ren.

Coom awa', coom awa'. In wi 'un, doon beside the fire; tak' a soop o' thot. Dinnot say a word till thou'st droonk it a'! Oop wi' it, mun. Ding! but I'm reeght glod to see thee.

"Veree glod, thank-you-veree-moach!" He bowed in still delight. "You must show me your pictures in the morning, Kada." "Thank-you-veree-moach! Soon I have one thousand dollar save', can go study Art School." "That's fine, Kada!" "Bud" his serene face clouded over "veree sod leavin' theeze house!

Kada was waiting in the doorway, bowing stiffly, sucking in his breath, beaming; the cook just behind him, following him in sound and gesture, and the Japanese gardener, hat in hand, stood at the foot of the steps as she passed to say, "How-do? Veree glod! Veree glod! Tha's nize you coming home! Veree glod!" Honor shook hands with them all.

I would fain have excused myself, but the old gentleman insisted on my drinking. "Well," said I, taking the glass, "thank God that our gloomy forebodings are not likely to be realised. Oes y byd i'r glod Frythoneg! May Britain's glory last as long as the world!" Then, looking for a moment at the ale, which was of a dark-brown colour, I put the glass to my lips and drank.

The soft-footed, soft-voiced Kada brought her a tea tray and arranged it deftly on a small table by the window. He smiled incessantly and kept sucking in his breath in his shy and respectful pleasure. "Veree glod," he said as the gardener had said before him, "Veree glod! I lige veree moach you comin' home! Now when thad Meestair Jeemsie comin' home too, happy days all those days!"

I tell 'ee both, that I'm glod the auld man has been caught out at last dom'd glod but ye'll sooffer eneaf wi'out any crowin' fra' me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass, so I tell 'ee flat.

Hoo be all wi' ye? Ding! But, I'm glod o' this! Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness of his salutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping his palm with great violence between each shake, to add warmth to the reception. 'Ah! there she be, said John, observing the look which Nicholas directed towards his wife.

Even the "heathen Crees" marvelled that these white men, praying to the same God, should dwell so far apart. Wing You, who had wandered over from Ramsay's Camp on the Pine River, explained it all to Dunraven: "Flenchman and Englishman," said Wing. "No ketchem same Glod.