The Little Minister

By

J.M. Barrie

www.freeclassicebooks.com

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.   - THE LOVE-LIGHT. 3

CHAPTER II.   - RUNS ALONGSIDE THE MAKING OF A MINISTER. 7

CHAPTER III.   - THE NIGHT-WATCHERS. 14

CHAPTER IV.   - FIRST COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. 24

CHAPTER V.   - A WARLIKE CHAPTER, CULMINATING IN THE FLOUTING OF THE MINISTER BY  THE WOMAN. 32

CHAPTER VI.   - IN WHICH THE SOLDIERS MEET THE AMAZONS OF THRUMS. 41

CHAPTER VII.   - HAS THE FOLLY OF LOOKING INTO A WOMAN'S EYES BY WAY OF TEXT. 51

CHAPTER VIII.   - 3 A.M.--MONSTROUS AUDACITY OF THE WOMAN. 57

CHAPTER IX.   - THE WOMAN CONSIDERED IN ABSENCE--ADVENTURES OF A MILITARY CLOAK. 65

CHAPTER X.   - FIRST SERMON AGAINST WOMEN. 73

CHAPTER XI.   - TELLS IN A WHISPER OF MAN'S FALL DURING THE CURLING SEASON. 81

CHAPTER XII.   - TRAGEDY OF A MUD HOUSE. 89

CHAPTER XIII.   - SECOND COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. 94

CHAPTER XIV.   - THE MINISTER DANCES TO THE WOMAN'S PIPING. 101

CHAPTER XV.   - THE MINISTER BEWITCHED--SECOND SERMON AGAINST WOMEN. 109

CHAPTER XVI.   - CONTINUED MISBEHAVIOUR OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN. 116

CHAPTER XVII.   - INTRUSION OF HAGGART INTO THESE PAGES AGAINST THE AUTHOR'S WISH. 123

CHAPTER XVIII.   - CADDAM--LOVE LEADING TO A RUPTURE. 132

CHAPTER XIX.   - CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO THE FIRST SERMON IN APPROVAL OF WOMEN. 139

CHAPTER XX.   - END OF THE STATE OF INDECISION. 146

CHAPTER XXI.   - NIGHT--MARGARET--FLASHING OF A LANTERN. 154

CHAPTER XXII.   - LOVERS. 162

CHAPTER XXIII.   - CONTAINS A BIRTH, WHICH IS SUFFICIENT FOR ONE CHAPTER. 169

CHAPTER XXIV.   - NEW WORLD, AND THE WOMAN WHO MAY NOT DWELL THEREIN. 173

CHAPTER XXV.   - BEGINNING OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 178

CHAPTER XXVI.   - SCENE AT THE SPITTAL. 184

CHAPTER XXVII.   - FIRST JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS. 189

CHAPTER XXVIII.   - THE HILL BEFORE DARKNESS FELL--SCENE OF THE IMPENDING CATASTROPHE. 193

CHAPTER XXIX.   - STORY OF THE EGYPTIAN. 199

CHAPTER XXX.   - THE MEETING FOR RAIN. 205

CHAPTER XXXI.   - VARIOUS BODIES CONVERGING ON THE HILL. 211

CHAPTER XXXII.   - LEADING SWIFTLY TO THE APPALLING MARRIAGE. 219

CHAPTER XXXIII.   - WHILE THE TEN O'CLOCK BELL WAS RINGING. 224

CHAPTER XXXIV.   - THE GREAT RAIN. 230

CHAPTER XXXV.   - THE GLEN AT BREAK OF DAY. 233

CHAPTER XXXVI.   - STORY OF THE DOMINIE. 243

CHAPTER XXXVII.   - SECOND JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS. 250

CHAPTER XXXVIII. - THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS-DEFENCE OF THE MANSE. 256

CHAPTER XXXIX. -  HOW BABBIE SPENT THE NIGHT OF AUGUST FOURTH. 263

CHAPTER XL.   - BABBIE AND MARGARET--DEFENCE OF THE MANSE CONTINUED. 268

CHAPTER XLI.   - RINTOUL AND BABBIE--BREAKDOWN OF THE DEFENCE OF THE MANSE. 274

CHAPTER XLII.   - MARGARET, THE PRECENTOR. AND GOD BETWEEN. 281

CHAPTER XLIII.   - RAIN--MIST--THE JAWS. 287

CHAPTER XLIV.   - END OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 294

CHAPTER I.   - THE LOVE-LIGHT.

Long ago, in the days when our caged blackbirds never saw a king's  soldier without whistling impudently, "Come ower the water to  Charlie," a minister of Thrums was to be married, but something  happened, and he remained a bachelor. Then, when he was old, he  passed in our square the lady who was to have been his wife, and  her hair was white, but she, too, was still unmarried. The meeting  had only one witness, a weaver, and he said solemnly afterwards,  "They didna speak, but they just gave one another a look, and I  saw the love-light in their een." No more is remembered of these  two, no being now living ever saw them, but the poetry that was in  the soul of a battered weaver makes them human to us for ever.

It is of another minister I am to tell, but only to those who know  that light when they see it. I am not bidding good-bye to many  readers, for though it is true that some men, of whom Lord Rintoul  was one, live to an old age without knowing love, few of us can  have met them, and of women so incomplete I never heard.

Gavin Dishart was barely twenty-one when he and his mother came to  Thrums, light-hearted like the traveller who knows not what awaits  him at the bend of the road. It was the time of year when the  ground is carpeted beneath the firs with brown needles, when  split-nuts patter all day from the beech, and children lay yellow  corn on the dominie's desk to remind him that now they are needed  in the fields. The day was so silent that carts could be heard  rumbling a mile away. All Thrums was out in its wynds and closes--  a few of the weavers still in knee-breeches--to look at the new  Auld Licht minister. I was there too, the dominie of Glen  Quharity, which is four miles from Thrums; and heavy was my heart  as I stood afar off so that Gavin's mother might not have the pain  of seeing me. I was the only one in the crowd who looked at her  more than at her son.

Eighteen years had passed since we parted. Already her hair had  lost the brightness of its youth, and she seemed to me smaller and  more fragile; and the face that I loved when I was a hobbledehoy,  and loved when I looked once more upon it in Thrums, and always  shall love till I die, was soft and worn. Margaret was an old  woman, and she was only forty-three: and I am the man who made her  old. As Gavin put his eager boyish face out at the carriage  window, many saw that he was holding her hand, but none could be  glad at the sight as the dominie was glad, looking on at a  happiness in which he dared not mingle. Margaret was crying  because she was so proud of her boy. Women do that. Poor sons to  be proud of, good mothers, but I would not have you dry those  tears.

When the little minister looked out at the carriage window, many  of the people drew back humbly, but a little boy in a red frock  with black spots pressed forward and offered him a sticky parly,  which Gavin accepted, though not without a tremor, for children  were more terrible to him then than bearded men. The boy's mother,  trying not to look elated, bore him away, but her face said that  he was made for life. With this little incident Gavin's career in  Thrums began. I remembered it suddenly the other day when wading  across the wynd where it took place. Many scenes in the little  minister's life come back to me in this way. The first time I ever  thought of writing his love story as an old man's gift to a little  maid since grown tall, was one night while I sat alone in the  school-house; on my knees a fiddle that has been my only living  companion since I sold my hens. My mind had drifted back to the  first time I saw Gavin and the Egyptian together, and what set it  wandering to that midnight meeting was my garden gate shaking in  the wind. At a gate on the hill I had first encountered these two.  It rattled in his hand, and I looked up and saw them, and neither  knew why I had such cause to start at the sight. Then the gate  swung to. It had just such a click as mine.

These two figures on the hill are more real to me than things that  happened yesterday, but I do not know that I can make them live to  others. A ghost-show used to come yearly to Thrums on the merry  Muckle Friday, in which the illusion was contrived by hanging a  glass between the onlookers and the stage. I cannot deny that the  comings and goings of the ghost were highly diverting, yet the  farmer of T'nowhead only laughed because he had paid his money at  the hole in the door like the rest of us. T'nowhead sat at the end  of a form where he saw round the glass and so saw no ghost. I fear  my public may be in the same predicament. I see the little  minister as he was at one-and-twenty, and the little girl to whom  this story is to belong sees him, though the things I have to tell  happened before she came into the world. But there are reasons why  she should see; and I do not know that I can provide the glass for  others. If they see round it, they will neither laugh nor cry with  Gavin and Babbie.

When Gavin came to Thrums he was as I am now, for the pages lay  before him on which he was to write his life. Yet he was not quite  as I am. The life of every man is a diary in which he means to  write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when  he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. But  the biographer sees the last chapter while he is still at the  first, and I have only to write over with ink what Gavin has  written in pencil.

How often is it a phanton woman who draws the man from the way he  meant to go? So was man created, to hunger for the ideal that is  above himself, until one day there is magic in the air, and the  eyes of a girl rest upon him. He does not know that it is he  himself who crowned her, and if the girl is as pure as he, their  love is the one form of idolatry that is not quite ignoble. It is  the joining of two souls on their way to God. But if the woman be  bad, the test of the man is when he wakens from his dream. The  nobler his ideal, the further will he have been hurried down the  wrong way, for those who only run after little things will not go  far. His love may now sink into passion, perhaps only to stain its  wings and rise again, perhaps to drown.

Babbie, what shall I say of you who make me write these things? I  am not your judge. Shall we not laugh at the student who chafes  when between him and his book comes the song of the thrushes, with  whom, on the mad night you danced into Gavin's life, you had more  in common than with Auld Licht ministers? The gladness of living  was in your step, your voice was melody, and he was wondering what  love might be.

You were the daughter of a summer night, born where all the birds  are free, and the moon christened you with her soft light to  dazzle the eyes of man. Not our little minister alone was stricken  by you into his second childhood. To look upon you was to rejoice  that so fair a thing could be; to think of you is still to be  young. Even those who called you a little devil, of whom I have  been one, admitted that in the end you had a soul, though not that  you had been born with one. They said you stole it, and so made a  woman of yourself. But again I say I am not your judge, and when I  picture you as Gavin saw you first, a bare-legged witch dancing up  Windyghoul, rowan berries in your black hair, and on your finger a  jewel the little minister could not have bought with five years of  toil, the shadows on my pages lift, and I cannot wonder that Gavin  loved you.

Often I say to myself that this is to be Gavin's story, not mine.  Yet must it be mine too, in a manner, and of myself I shall  sometimes have to speak; not willingly, for it is time my little  tragedy had died of old age. I have kept it to myself so long that  now I would stand at its grave alone. It is true that when I heard  who was to be the new minister I hoped for a day that the life  broken in Harvie might be mended in Thrums, but two minutes' talk  with Gavin showed me that Margaret had kept from him the secret  which was hers and mine and so knocked the bottom out of my vain  hopes. I did not blame her then, nor do I blame her now, nor shall  anyone who blames her ever be called friend by me; but it was  bitter to look at the white manse among the trees and know that I  must never enter it. For Margaret's sake I had to keep aloof, yet  this new trial came upon me like our parting at Harvie. I thought  that in those eighteen years my passions had burned like a ship  till they sank, but I suffered again as on that awful night when  Adam Dishart came back, nearly killing Margaret and tearing up all  my ambitions by the root in a single hour. I waited in Thrums  until I had looked again on Margaret, who thought me dead, and  Gavin, who had never heard of me, and then I trudged back to the  school-house. Something I heard of them from time to time during  the winter--for in the gossip of Thrums I was well posted--but  much of what is to be told here I only learned afterwards from  those who knew it best. Gavin heard of me at times as the dominie  in the glen who had ceased to attend the Auld Licht kirk, and  Margaret did not even hear of me. It was all I could do for them.

CHAPTER II.   - RUNS ALONGSIDE THE MAKING OF A MINISTER.

On the east coast of Scotland, hidden, as if in a quarry, at the  foot of cliffs that may one day fall forward, is a village called  Harvie. So has it shrunk since the day when I skulked from it that  I hear of a traveller's asking lately at one of its doors how far  he was from a village; yet Harvie throve once and was celebrated  even in distant Thrums for its fish. Most of our weavers would  have thought it as unnatural not to buy harvies in the square on  the Muckle Friday, as to let Saturday night pass without laying in  a sufficient stock of halfpennies to go round the family twice.

Gavin was born in Harvie, but left it at such an early age that he  could only recall thatched houses with nets drying on the roofs,  and a sandy shore in which coarse grass grew. In the picture he  could not pick out the house of his birth, though he might have  been able to go to it had he ever returned to the village. Soon he  learned that his mother did not care to speak of Harvie, and  perhaps he thought that she had forgotten it too, all save one  scene to which his memory still guided him. When his mind wandered  to Harvie, Gavin saw the door of his home open and a fisherman  enter, who scratched his head and then said, "Your man's drowned,  missis." Gavin seemed to see many women crying, and his mother  staring at them with a face suddenly painted white, and next to  hear a voice that was his own saying, "Never mind, mother; I'll be  a man to you now, and I'll need breeks for the burial." But Adam  required no funeral, for his body lay deep in the sea.

Gavin thought that this was the tragedy of his mother's life, and  the most memorable event of his own childhood. But it was neither.  When Margaret, even after she came to Thrums, thought of Harvie,  it was not at Adam's death she shuddered, but at the recollection  of me.

It would ill become me to take a late revenge on Adam Dishart now  by saying what is not true of him. Though he died a fisherman he  was a sailor for a great part of his life, and doubtless his  recklessness was washed into him on the high seas, where in his  time men made a crony of death, and drank merrily over dodging it  for another night. To me his roars of laughter without cause were  as repellent as a boy's drum; yet many faces that were long in my  company brightened at his coming, and women, with whom, despite my  yearning, I was in no wise a favorite, ran to their doors to  listen to him as readily as to the bell-man. Children scurried  from him if his mood was savage, but to him at all other times,  while me they merely disregarded. There was always a smell of the  sea about him. He had a rolling gait, unless he was drunk, when he  walked very straight, and before both sexes he boasted that any  woman would take him for his beard alone. Of this beard he took  prodigious care, though otherwise thinking little of his  appearance, and I now see that he understood women better than I  did, who had nevertheless reflected much about them. It cannot be  said that he was vain, for though he thought he attracted women  strangely, that, I maintain, is a weakness common to all men, and  so no more to be marvelled at than a stake in a fence. Foreign  oaths were the nails with which he held his talk together, yet I  doubt not they were a curiosity gathered at sea, like his chains  of shells, more for his own pleasure than for others' pain. His  friends gave them no weight, and when he wanted to talk  emphatically he kept them back, though they were then as  troublesome to him as eggs to the bird-nesting boy who has to  speak with his spoil in his mouth.

Adam was drowned on Gavin's fourth birthday, a year after I had to  leave Harvie. He was blown off his smack in a storm, and could not  reach the rope his partner flung him. "It's no go, lad," he  shouted; "so long, Jim," and sank.

A month afterwards Margaret sold her share in the smack, which was  all Adam left her, and the furniture of the house was rouped. She  took Gavin to Glasgow, where her only brother needed a  housekeeper, and there mother and son remained until Gavin got his  call to Thrums. During those seventeen years I lost knowledge of  them as completely as Margaret had lost knowledge of me. On  hearing of Adam's death I went back to Harvie to try to trace her,  but she had feared this, and so told no one where she was going.

According to Margaret, Gavin's genius showed itself while he was  still a child. He was born with a brow whose nobility impressed  her from the first. It was a minister's brow, and though Margaret  herself was no scholar, being as slow to read as she was quick at  turning bannocks on the girdle, she decided, when his age was  still counted by months, that the ministry had need of him. In  those days the first question asked of a child was not, "Tell me  your name," but "What are you to be?" and one child in every  family replied, "A minister." He was set apart for the Church as  doggedly as the shilling a week for the rent, and the rule held  good though the family consisted of only one boy. From his  earliest days Gavin thought he had been fashioned for the ministry  as certainly as a spade for digging, and Margaret rejoiced and  marvelled thereat, though she had made her own puzzle. An  enthusiastic mother may bend her son's mind as she chooses if she  begins it once; nay, she may do stranger things. I know a mother  in Thrums who loves "features," and had a child born with no chin  to speak of. The neighbors expected this to bring her to the dust,  but it only showed what a mother can do. In a few months that  child had a chin with the best of them.

Margaret's brother died, but she remained in his single room, and,  ever with a picture of her son in a pulpit to repay her, contrived  to keep Gavin at school. Everything a woman's fingers can do  Margaret's did better than most, and among the wealthy people who  employed her--would that I could have the teaching of the sons of  such as were good to her in those hard days!--her gentle manner  was spoken of. For though Margaret had no schooling, she was a  lady at heart, moving and almost speaking as one even in Harvie,  where they did not perhaps like her the better for it.

At six Gavin hit another boy hard for belonging to the Established  Church, and at seven he could not lose himself in the Shorter  Catechism. His mother expounded the Scriptures to him till he was  eight, when he began to expound them to her. By this time he was  studying the practical work of the pulpit as enthusiastically as  ever medical student cut off a leg. From a front pew in the  gallery Gavin watched the minister's every movement, noting that  the first thing to do on ascending the pulpit is to cover your  face with your hands, as if the exalted position affected you like  a strong light, and the second to move the big Bible slightly, to  show that the kirk officer, not having had a university education,  could not be expected to know the very spot on which it ought to  lie. Gavin saw that the minister joined in the singing more like  one countenancing a seemly thing than because he needed it  himself, and that he only sang a mouthful now and again after the  congregation was in full pursuit of the precentor. It was  noteworthy that the first prayer lasted longer than all the  others, and that to read the intimations about the Bible-class and  the collection elsewhere than immediately before the last Psalm  would have been as sacrilegious as to insert the dedication to  King James at the end of Revelation. Sitting under a minister  justly honoured in his day, the boy was often some words in  advance of him, not vainglorious of his memory, but fervent,  eager, and regarding the preacher as hardly less sacred than the  Book. Gavin was encouraged by his frightened yet admiring mother  to saw the air from their pew as the minister sawed it in the  pulpit, and two benedictions were pronounced twice a Sabbath in  that church, in the same words, the same manner, and  simultaneously.

There was a black year when the things of this world, especially  its pastimes, took such a grip of Gavin that he said to Margaret  he would rather be good at the high jump than the author of "The  Pilgrim's Progress." That year passed, and Gavin came to his right  mind. One afternoon Margaret was at home making a glen-garry for  him out of a piece of carpet, and giving it a tartan edging, when  the boy bounded in from school, crying, "Come quick, mother, and  you'll see him." Margaret reached the door in time to see a street  musician flying from Gavin and his friends. "Did you take stock of  him, mother?" the boy asked when he reappeared with the mark of a  muddy stick on his back. "He's a Papist!--a sore sight, mother, a  sore sight. We stoned him for persecuting the noble Martyrs."

"When Gavin was twelve he went to the university, and also got a  place in a shop as errand boy. He used to run through the streets  between his work and his classes. Potatoes and salt fish, which  could then be got at two pence the pound if bought by the half-  hundred weight, were his food. There was not always a good meal  for two, yet when Gavin reached home at night there was generally  something ready for him, and Margaret had supped "hours ago."  Gavin's hunger urged him to fall to, but his love for his mother  made him watchful.

"What did you have yourself, mother?" he would demand  suspiciously.

"Oh, I had a fine supper, I assure you."

"What had you?"

"I had potatoes, for one thing."

"And dripping?"

"You may be sure."

"Mother, you're cheating me. The dripping hasn't been touched  since yesterday."

"I dinna--don't--care for dripping--no much."

Then would Gavin stride the room fiercely, a queer little figure.

"Do you think I'll stand this, mother? Will I let myself be  pampered with dripping and every delicacy while you starve?"

"Gavin, I really dinna care for dripping."

"Then I'll give up my classes, and we can have butter."

"I assure you I'm no hungry. It's different wi' a growing laddie."

"I'm not a growing laddie," Gavin would say, bitterly; "but,  mother, I warn you that not another bite passes my throat till I  see you eating too."

So Margaret had to take her seat at the table, and when she said  "I can eat no more," Gavin retorted sternly, "Nor will I, for fine  I see through you."

These two were as one far more than most married people, and, just  as Gavin in his childhood reflected his mother, she now reflected  him. The people for whom she sewed thought it was contact with  them that had rubbed the broad Scotch from her tongue, but she Was  only keeping pace with Gavin. When she was excited the Harvie  words came back to her, as they come back to me. I have taught the  English language all my life, and I try to write it, but  everything I say in this book I first think to myself in the  Doric. This, too, I notice, that in talking to myself I am broader  than when gossiping with the farmers of the glen, who send their  children to me to learn English, and then jeer at them if they say  "old lights" instead of "auld lichts."

To Margaret it was happiness to sit through the long evenings  sewing, and look over her work at Gavin as he read or wrote or  recited to himself the learning of the schools. But she coughed  every time the weather changed, and then Gavin would start.

"You must go to your bed, mother," he would say, tearing himself  from his books; or he would sit beside her and talk of the dream  that was common to both--a dream of a manse where Margaret was  mistress and Gavin was called the minister. Every night Gavin was  at his mother's bedside to wind her shawl round her feet, and  while he did it Margaret smiled.

"Mother, this is the chaff pillow you've taken out of my bed, and  given me your feather one."

"Gavin, you needna change them. I winna have the feather pillow."

"Do you dare to think I'll let you sleep on chaff? Put up your  head. Now, is that soft?"

"It's fine. I dinna deny but what I sleep better on feathers. Do  you mind, Gavin, you bought this pillow for me the moment you got  your bursary money?"

The reserve that is a wall between many of the Scottish poor had  been broken down by these two. When he saw his mother sleeping  happily, Gavin went back to his work. To save the expense of a  lamp, he would put his book almost beneath the dying fire, and,  taking the place of the fender, read till he was shivering with  cold.

"Gavin, it is near morning, and you not in your bed yet! What are  you thinking about so hard?"

"Oh, mother, I was wondering if the time would ever come when I  would be a minister, and you would have an egg for your breakfast  every morning."

So the years passed, and soon Gavin would be a minister. He had  now sermons to prepare, and every one of them was first preached  to Margaret. How solemn was his voice, how his eyes flashed, how  stern were his admonitions.

"Gavin, such a sermon I never heard. The spirit of God is on you.  I'm ashamed you should have me for a mother."

"God grant, mother," Gavin said, little thinking what was soon to  happen, or he would have made this prayer on his knees, "that you  may never be ashamed to have me for a son."

"Ah, mother," he would say wistfully, "it is not a great sermon,  but do you think I'm preaching Christ? That is what I try, but I'm  carried away and forget to watch myself."

"The Lord has you by the hand, Gavin; and mind, I dinna say that  because you're my laddie."

"Yes, you do, mother, and well I know it, and yet it does me good  to hear you."

That it did him good I, who would fain have shared those days with  them, am very sure. The praise that comes of love does not make us  vain, but humble rather. Knowing what we are, the pride that  shines in our mother's eyes as she looks at us is about the most  pathetic thing a man has to face, but he would be a devil  altogether if it did not burn some of the sin out of him.

Not long before Gavin preached for our kirk and got his call, a  great event took place in the little room at Glasgow. The student  appeared for the first time before his mother in his ministerial  clothes. He wore the black silk hat, that was destined to become a  terror to evil-doers in Thrums, and I dare say he was rather  puffed up about himself that day. You would probably have smiled  at him.

"It's a pity I'm so little, mother," he said with a sigh.

"You're no what I would call a particularly long man," Margaret  said, "but you're just the height I like."

Then Gavin went out in his grandeur, and Margaret cried for an  hour. She was thinking of me as well as of Gavin, and as it  happens, I know that I was thinking at the same time of her. Gavin  kept a diary in those days, which I have seen, and by comparing it  with mine, I discovered that while he was showing himself to his  mother in his black clothes, I was on my way back from Tilliedrum,  where I had gone to buy a sand-glass for the school. The one I  bought was so like another Margaret had used at Harvie that it set  me thinking of her again all the way home. This is a matter hardly  worth mentioning, and yet it interests me.

Busy days followed the call to Thrums, and Gavin had difficulty in  forcing himself to his sermons when there was always something  more to tell his mother about the weaving town they were going to,  or about the manse or the furniture that had been transferred to  him by the retiring minister. The little room which had become so  familiar that it seemed one of a family party of three had to be  stripped, and many of its contents were sold. Among what were  brought to Thrums was a little exercise book, in which Margaret  had tried, unknown to Gavin, to teach herself writing and grammar,  that she might be less unfit for a manse. He found it accidentally  one day. It was full of "I am, thou art, he is," and the like,  written many times in a shaking hand. Gavin put his arms round his  mother when he saw what she had been doing. The exercise book is  in my desk now, and will be my little maid's when I die.

"Gavin, Gavin," Margaret said many times In those last days at  Glasgow, "to think it has all come true!"

"Let the last word you say in the house be a prayer of  thankfulness," she whispered to him when they were taking a final  glance at the old home.

In the bare room they called the house, the little minister and  his mother went on their knees, but, as it chanced, their last  word there was not addressed to God.

"Gavin," Margaret whispered as he took her arm, "do you think this  bonnet sets me?"

CHAPTER III.   - THE NIGHT-WATCHERS.

What first struck Margaret in Thrums was the smell of the caddis.  The town smells of caddis no longer, but whiffs of it may be got  even now as one passes the houses of the old, where the lay still  swings at little windows like a great ghost pendulum. To me it is  a homely smell, which I draw in with a great breath, but it was as  strange to Margaret as the weavers themselves, who, in their  colored nightcaps and corduroys streaked with threads, gazed at  her and Gavin. The little minister was trying to look severe and  old, but twenty-one was in his eye.

"Look, mother, at that white house with the green roof. That is  the manse."

The manse stands high, with a sharp eye on all the town. Every  back window in the Tenements has a glint of it, and so the back of  the Tenements is always better behaved than the front. It was in  the front that Jamie Don, a pitiful bachelor all his life because  he thought the women proposed, kept his ferrets, and here, too,  Beattie hanged himself, going straight to the clothes-posts for  another rope when the first one broke, such was his determination.  In the front Sanders Gilruth openly boasted (on Don's potato-pit)  that by having a seat in two churches he could lie in bed on  Sabbath and get the credit of being at one or other. (Gavin made  short work of him.) To the right-minded the Auld Licht manse was  as a family Bible, ever lying open before them, but Beattie spoke  for more than him-self when he said, "Dagone that manse! I never  gie a swear but there it is glowering at me."

The manse looks down on the town from the northeast, and is  reached from the road that leaves Thrums behind it in another  moment by a wide, straight path, so rough that to carry a fraught  of water to the manse without spilling was to be superlatively  good at one thing. Packages in a cart it set leaping like trout in  a fishing-creel. Opposite the opening of the garden wall in the  manse, where for many years there had been an intention of putting  up a gate, were two big stones a yard apart, standing ready for  the winter, when the path was often a rush of yellow water, and  this the only bridge to the glebe dyke, down which the minister  walked to church.

When Margaret entered the manse on Gavin's arm, it was a  whitewashed house of five rooms, with a garret in which the  minister could sleep if he had guests, as during the Fast week. It  stood with its garden within high walls, and the roof awing  southward was carpeted with moss that shone in the sun in a dozen  shades of green and yellow. Three firs guarded the house from west  winds, but blasts from the north often tore down the steep fields  and skirled through the manse, banging all its doors at once. A  beech, growing on the east side, leant over the roof as if to  gossip with the well in the courtyard. The garden was to the  south, and was over full of gooseberry and currant bushes. It  contained a summer seat, where strange things were soon to happen.

Margaret would not even take off her bonnet until she had seen  through the manse and opened all the presses. The parlour and  kitchen were downstairs, and of the three rooms above, the study  was so small that Gavin's predecessor could touch each of its  walls without shifting his position. Every room save Margaret's  had long-lidded beds, which close as if with shutters, but hers  was coff-fronted, or comparatively open, with carving on the wood  like the ornamentation of coffins. Where there were children in a  house they liked to slope the boards of the closed-in bed against  the dresser, and play at sliding down mountains on them.

But for many years there had been no children in the manse. He in  whose ways Gavin was to attempt the heavy task of walking had been  a widower three months after his marriage, a man narrow when he  came to Thrums, but so large-hearted when he left it that I, who  know there is good in all the world because of the lovable souls I  have met in this corner of it, yet cannot hope that many are as  near to God as he. The most gladsome thing in the world is that  few of us fall very low; the saddest that, with such capabilities,  we seldom rise high. Of those who stand perceptibly above their  fellows I have known very few; only Mr. Carfrae and two or three  women.

Gavin only saw a very frail old minister who shook as he walked,  as if his feet were striking against stones. He was to depart on  the morrow to the place of his birth, but he came to the manse to  wish his successor God-speed. Strangers were so formidable to  Margaret that she only saw him from her window.

"May you never lose sight of God, Mr. Dishart," the old man said  in the parlour. Then he added, as if he had asked too much, "May  you never turn from Him as I often did when I was a lad like you."

As this aged minister, with the beautiful face that God gives to  all who love Him and follow His commandments, spoke of his youth,  he looked wistfully around the faded parlour.

"It is like a dream," he said. "The first time I entered this room  the thought passed through me that I would cut down that cherry-  tree, because it kept out the light, but, you see, it outlives me.  I grew old while looking for the axe. Only yesterday I was the  young minister, Mr. Dishart, and to-morrow you will be the old  one, bidding good-bye to your successor."

His eyes came back to Gavin's eager face.

"You are very young, Mr. Dishart?"

"Nearly twenty-one."

"Twenty-one! Ah, my dear sir, you do not know how pathetic that  sounds to me. Twenty-one! We are children for the second time at  twenty-one, and again when we are grey and put all our burden on  the Lord. The young talk generously of relieving the old of their  burdens, but the anxious heart is to the old when they see a load  on the back of the young. Let me tell you, Mr. Dishart, that I  would condone many things in one-and-twenty now that I dealt  hardly with at middle age. God Himself, I think, is very willing  to give one-and-twenty a second chance."

"I am afraid," Gavin said anxiously, "that I look even younger."

"I think," Mr. Carfrae answered, smiling, "that your heart is as  fresh as your face; and that is well. The useless men are those  who never change with the years. Many views that I held to in my  youth and long afterwards are a pain to me now, and I am carrying  away from Thrums memories of errors into which I fell at every  stage of my ministry. When you are older you will know that life  is a long lesson in humility."

He paused.

"I hope," he said nervously, "that you don't sing the  Paraphrases?"

Mr. Carfrae had not grown out of all his prejudices, you see;  indeed, if Gavin had been less bigoted than he on this question  they might have parted stiffly. The old minister would rather have  remained to die in his pulpit than surrender it to one who read  his sermons. Others may blame him for this, but I must say here  plainly that I never hear a minister reading without wishing to  send him back to college.

"I cannot deny," Mr. Carfrae said, "that I broke down more than  once to-day. This forenoon I was in Tillyloss, for the last time,  and it so happens that there is scarcely a house in it in which I  have not had a marriage or prayed over a coffin. Ah, sir, these  are the scenes that make the minister more than all his sermons.  You must join the family, Mr. Dishart, or you are only a minister  once a week. And remember this, if your call is from above, it is  a call to stay. Many such partings in a lifetime as I have had to-  day would be too heartrending."

"And yet," Gavin said, hesitatingly, "they told me in Glasgow that  I had received a call from the mouth of hell."

"Those were cruel words, but they only mean that people who are  seldom more than a day's work in advance of want sometimes rise in  arms for food. Our weavers are passionately religious, and so  independent that they dare any one to help them, but if their  wages were lessened they could not live. And so at talk of  reduction they catch fire. Change of any kind alarms them, and  though they call themselves Whigs, they rose a few years ago over  the paving of the streets and stoned the workmen, who were  strangers, out of the town."

"And though you may have thought the place quiet to-day, Mr.  Dishart, there was an ugly outbreak only two months ago, when the  weavers turned on the manufacturers for reducing the price of the  web, made a bonfire of some of their doors, and terrified one of  them into leaving Thrums. Under the command of some Chartists, the  people next paraded the streets to the music of fife and drum, and  six policemen who drove up from Tilliedrum in a light cart were  sent back tied to the seats."

"No one has been punished?"

"Not yet, but nearly two years ago there was a similar riot, and  the sheriff took no action for months. Then one night the square  suddenly filled with soldiers, and the ringleaders were seized in  their beds, Mr. Dishart, the people are determined not to be  caught in that way again, and ever since the rising a watch has  been kept by night on every road that leads to Thrums. The signal  that the soldiers are coining is to be the blowing of a horn. If  you ever hear that horn, I implore you to hasten to the square."

"The weavers would not fight?"

"You do not know how the Chartists have fired this part of the  country. One misty day, a week ago, I was on the hill; I thought I  had it to myself, when suddenly I heard a voice cry sharply,  'Shoulder arms.' I could see no one, and after a moment I put it  down to a freak of the wind. Then all at once the mist before me  blackened, and a body of men seemed to grow out of it. They were  not shadows; they were Thrums weavers drilling, with pikes in  their hands.

"They broke up," Mr. Carfrae continued, after a pause, "at my  entreaty, but they have met again since then."

"And there were Auld Lichts among them?" Gavin asked. "I should  have thought they would be frightened at our precentor, Lang  Tammas, who seems to watch for backsliding in the congregation as  if he had pleasure in discovering it."

Gavin spoke with feeling, for the precentor had already put him  through his catechism, and it was a stiff ordeal.

"The precentor!" said Mr. Carfrae. "Why, he was one of them."

The old minister, once so brave a figure, tottered as he rose to  go, and reeled in a dizziness until he had walked a few paces.  Gavin went with him to the foot of the manse road; without his  hat, as all Thrums knew before bedtime.

"I begin," Gavin said, as they were parting, "where you leave off,  and my prayer is that I may walk in your ways."

"Ah, Mr. Dishart," the white-haired minister said, with a sigh,  "the world does not progress so quickly as a man grows old. You  only begin where I began."

He left Gavin, and then, as if the little minister's last words  had hurt him, turned and solemnly pointed his staff upward. Such  men are the strong nails that keep the world together.

The twenty-one-years-old minister returned to the manse somewhat  sadly, but when he saw his mother at the window of her bed-room,  his heart leapt at the thought that she was with him and he had  eighty pounds a year. Gaily he waved both his hands to her, and  she answered with a smile, and then, in his boyishness, he jumped  over a gooseberry bush. Immediately afterwards he reddened and  tried to look venerable, for while in the air he had caught sight  of two women and a man watching him from the dyke. He walked  severely to the door, and, again forgetting himself, was bounding  upstairs to Margaret, when Jean, the servant, stood scandalised in  his way.

"I don't think she caught me," was Gavin's reflection, and "The  Lord preserves!" was Jean's.

Gavin found his mother wondering how one should set about getting  a cup of tea in a house that had a servant in it. He boldly rang  the bell, and the willing Jean answered it so promptly (in a rush  and jump) that Margaret was as much startled as Aladdin the first  time he rubbed his lamp.

Manse servants of the most admired kind move softly, as if  constant contact with a minister were goloshes to them; but Jean  was new and raw, only having got her place because her father  might be an elder any day. She had already conceived a romantic  affection for her master; but to say "sir" to him-as she thirsted  to do--would have been as difficult to her as to swallow oysters.  So anxious was she to please that when Gavin rang she fired  herself at the bed-room, but bells were novelties to her as well  as to Margaret, and she cried, excitedly, "What is it?" thinking  the house must be on fire.

"There's a curran folk at the back door," Jean announced later,  "and their respects to you, and would you gie them some water out  o' the well? It has been a drouth this aucht days, and the pumps  is locked. Na," she said, as Gavin made a too liberal offer, "that  would toom the well, and there's jimply enough for oursels. I  should tell you, too, that three o' them is no Auld Lichts."

"Let that make no difference," Gavin said grandly, but Jean  changed his message to: "A bowlful apiece to Auld Lichts; all  other denominations one cupful."

"Ay, ay," said Snecky Hobart, letting down the bucket, "and we'll  include atheists among other denominations." The conversation came  to Gavin and Margaret through the kitchen doorway.

"Dinna class Jo Cruickshanks wi' me," said Sam'l Langlands the U.  P.

"Na, na," said Cruickshanks the atheist, "I'm ower independent to  be religious. I dinna gang to the kirk to cry, 'Oh, Lord, gie,  gie, gie.'"

"Take tent o' yoursel', my man," said Lang Tammas sternly, "or  you'll soon be whaur you would neifer the warld for a cup o' that  cauld water."

"Maybe you've ower keen an interest in the devil, Tammas,"  retorted the atheist; "but, ony way, if it's heaven for climate,  it's hell for company."

"Lads," said Snecky, sitting down on the bucket, "we'll send Mr.  Dishart to Jo. He'll make another Rob Dow o' him."

"Speak mair reverently o' your minister," said the precentor. "He  has the gift."

--I hinna naturally your solemn rasping word, Tammas, but in the  heart I speak in all reverence. Lads, the minister has a word! I  tell you he prays near like one giving orders."

"At first," Snecky continued, "I thocht yon lang candidate was the  earnestest o' them a", and I dinna deny but when I saw him wi' his  head bowed-like in prayer during the singing I says to rnysel',  'Thou art the man.' Ay, but Betsy wraxed up her head, and he wasna  praying. He was combing his hair wi' his fingers on the sly."

"You ken fine, Sneck," said Cruickshanks, "that you said, 'Thou  art the man' to ilka ane o' them, and just voted for Mr. Dishart  because he preached hinmost."

"I didna say it to--Mr. Urquhart, the ane that preached second,"  Sneck said. "That was the lad that gaed through ither."

"Ay," said Susy Tibbits, nicknamed by Haggart "the Timidest Woman"  because she once said she was too young to marry, "but I was fell  sorry for him, just being over anxious. He began bonny, flinging  himself, like ane Inspired, at the pulpit door, but after Hendry  Munn pointed at it and cried out, 'Be cautious, the sneck's  loose,' he a' gaed to bits. What a coolness Hendry has, though I  suppose it was his duty, him being kirk-officer."

"We didna want a man," Lang Tammas said, "that could be put out by  sic a sma' thing as that. Mr. Urquhart was in sic a ravel after it  that when he gies out the first line o' the hunder and nineteenth  psalm for singing, says he, 'And so on to the end.' Ay, that  finished his chance."

"The noblest o' them to look at," said Tibbie Birse, "was that ane  frae Aberdeen, him that had sic a saft side to Jacob."

"Ay," said Snecky, "and I speired at Dr. McQueen if I should vote  for him. 'Looks like a genius, does he?' says the Doctor. 'Weel,  then,' says he, 'dinna vote for him, for my experience is that  there's no folk sic idiots as them that looks like geniuses.'"

"Sal," Susy said, "it's a guid thing we've settled, for I enjoyed  sitting like a judge upon them so muckle that I sair doubt it was  a kind o' sport to me."

"It was no sport to them, Susy, I'se uphaud, but it is a blessing  we've settled, and ondoubtedly we've got the pick o' them. The  only thing Mr. Dishart did that made me oneasy was his saying the  word Caesar as if it began wi' a k."

"He'll startle you mair afore you're done wi' him," the atheist  said maliciously. "I ken the ways o' thae ministers preaching for  kirks. Oh, they're cunning. You was a' pleased that Mr. Dishart  spoke about looms and webs, but, lathies, it was a trick. Ilka ane  o' thae young ministers has a sermon about looms for weaving  congregations, and a second about beating swords into ploughshares  for country places, and another on the great catch of fishes for  fishing villages. That's their stock-in-trade; and just you wait  and see if you dinna get the ploughshares and the fishes afore the  month's out. A minister preaching for a kirk is one thing, but a  minister placed in't may be a very different berry."

"Joseph Cruickshanks," cried the precentor, passionately, "none o'  your d----d blasphemy!"

They all looked at Whamond, and he dug his teeth into his lips in  shame.

"Wha's swearing now?" said the atheist.

But Whamond was quick.

"Matthew, twelve and thirty-one," he said.

"Dagont, Tammas," exclaimed the baffled Cruickshanks, "you're aye  quoting Scripture. How do you no quote Feargus O'Connor?"

"Lads," said Snecky, "Jo hasna heard Mr. Dishart's sermons. Ay, we  get it scalding when he comes to the sermon. I canna thole a  minister that preaches as if heaven was round the corner."

"If you're hitting at our minister, Snecky," said James Cochrane,  "let me tell you he's a better man than yours."

"A better curler, I dare say."

"A better prayer."

"Ay, he can pray for a black frost as if it was ane o' the Royal  Family. I ken his prayers, 'O Lord, let it haud for anither day,  and keep the snaw awa'.' Will you pretend, Jeames, that Mr. Duthie  could make onything o' Rob Dow?"

"I admit that Rob's awakening was an extraordinary thing, and  sufficient to gie Mr. Dishart a name. But Mr. Carfrae was baffled  wi' Rob too."

"Jeames, if you had been in our kirk that day Mr. Dishart preached  for't you would be wearying the now for Sabbath, to be back in't  again. As you ken, that wicked man there, Jo Cruickshanks, got Rob  Dow, drucken, cursing, poaching--Rob Dow, to come to the kirk to  annoy the minister. Ay, he hadna been at that work for ten minutes  when Mr. Dishart stopped in his first prayer and ga'e Rob a look.  I couldna see the look, being in the precentor's box, but as sure  as death I felt it boring through me. Rob is hard wood, though,  and soon he was at his tricks again. Weel, the minister stopped a  second time in the sermon, and so awful was the silence that a  heap o' the congregation couldna keep their seats. I heard Rob  breathing quick and strong. Mr. Dishart had his arm pointed at him  a' this time, and at last he says sternly, 'Come forward.' Listen,  Joseph Cruickshanks, and tremble. Rob gripped the board to keep  himsel' frae obeying, and again Mr. Dishart says, 'Come forward,'  and syne Rob rose shaking, and tottered to the pulpit stair like a  man suddenly shot into the Day of Judgment. 'You hulking man of  sin,' cries Mr. Dishart, not a tick fleid, though Rob's as big as  three o' him, 'sit down on the stair and attend to me, or I'll  step doun frae the pulpit and run you out of the house of God,'"

"And since that day," said Hobart, "Rob has worshipped Mr. Dishart  as a man that has stepped out o' the Bible. When the carriage  passed this day we was discussing the minister, and Sam'l Dickie  wasna sure but what Mr. Dishart wore his hat rather far back on  his head. You should have seen Rob. 'My certie,' he roars,  'there's the shine frae Heaven on that little minister's face, and  them as says there's no has me to fecht.'"

"Ay, weel," said the U. P., rising, "we'll see how Rob wears--and  how your minister wears too. I wouldna like to sit in a kirk whaur  they daurna sing a paraphrase."

"The Psalms of David," retorted Whamond, "mount straight to  heaven, but your paraphrases sticks to the ceiling o' the kirk."

"You're a bigoted set, Tammas Whamond, but I tell you this, and  it's my last words to you the nicht, the day'll come when you'll  hae Mr. Duthie, ay, and even the U. P. minister, preaching in the  Auld Licht kirk."

"And let this be my last words to you," replied the precentor,  furiously; "that rather than see a U. P. preaching in the Auld  Licht kirk I would burn in hell fire for ever!"

This gossip increased Gavin's knowledge of the grim men with whom  he had now to deal. But as he sat beside Margaret after she had  gone to bed, their talk was pleasant.

"You remember, mother," Gavin said, "how I almost prayed for the  manse that was to give you an egg every morning. I have been  telling Jean never to forget the egg."

"Ah, Gavin, things have come about so much as we wanted that I'm a  kind o' troubled. It's hardly natural, and I hope nothing terrible  is to happen now."

Gavin arranged her pillows as she liked them, and when he next  stole into the room in his stocking soles to look at her, he  thought she was asleep. But she was not. I dare say she saw at  that moment Gavin in his first frock, and Gavin in knickerbockers,  and Gavin as he used to walk into the Glasgow room from college,  all still as real to her as the Gavin who had a kirk.

The little minister took away the lamp to his own room, shaking  his fist at himself for allowing his mother's door to creak. He  pulled up his blind. The town lay as still as salt. But a steady  light showed in the south, and on pressing his face against the  window he saw another in the west. Mr. Carfrae's words about the  night-watch came back to him. Perhaps it had been on such a silent  night as this that the soldiers marched into Thrums. Would they  come again?

CHAPTER IV.   - FIRST COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN.

A learned man says in a book, otherwise beautiful with truth, that  villages are family groups. To him Thrums would only be a village,  though town is the word we have ever used, and this is not true of  it. Doubtless we have interests in common, from which a place so  near (but the road is heavy) as Tilliedrum is shut out, and we  have an individuality of our own too, as if, like our red houses,  we came from a quarry that supplies no other place. But we are not  one family. In the old days, those of us who were of the Tenements  seldom wandered to the Croft head, and if we did go there we saw  men to whom we could not always give a name. To flit from the  Tanage brae to Haggart's road was to change one's friends. A kirk-  wynd weaver might kill his swine and Tillyloss not know of it  until boys ran westward hitting each other with the bladders. Only  the voice of the dulsemen could be heard all over Thrums at once.  Thus even in a small place but a few outstanding persons are known  to everybody.

In eight days Gavin's figure was more familiar in Thrums than many  that had grown bent in it. He had already been twice to the  cemetery, for a minister only reaches his new charge in time to  attend a funeral. Though short of stature he cast a great shadow.  He was so full of his duties, Jean said, that though he pulled to  the door as he left the manse, he had passed the currant bushes  before it snecked. He darted through courts, and invented ways  into awkward houses. If you did not look up quickly he was round  the corner. His visiting exhausted him only less than his zeal in  the pulpit, from which, according to report, he staggered damp  with perspiration to the vestry, where Hendry Munn wrung him like  a wet cloth. A deaf lady, celebrated for giving out her washing,  compelled him to hold her trumpet until she had peered into all  his crannies, with the Shorter Catechism for a lantern. Janet  Dundas told him, in answer to his knock, that she could not abide  him, but she changed her mind when he said her garden was quite a  show. The wives who expected a visit scrubbed their floors for  him, cleaned out their presses for him, put diamond socks on their  bairns for him, rubbed their hearthstones blue for him, and even  tidied up the garret for him, and triumphed over the neighbours  whose houses he passed by. For Gavin blundered occasionally by  inadvertence, as when he gave dear old Betty Davie occasion to say  bitterly--

"Ou ay, you can sail by my door and gang to Easie's, but I'm  thinking you would stop at mine too if I had a brass handle on't."

So passed the first four weeks, and then came the fateful night of  the seventeenth of October, and with it the strange woman. Family  worship at the manse was over and Gavin was talking to his mother,  who never crossed the threshold save to go to church (though her  activity at home was among the marvels Jean sometimes slipped down  to the Tenements to announce). when Wearyworld the policeman came  to the door "with Rob Dow's compliments, and if you're no wi' me  by ten o'clock I'm to break out again." Gavin knew what this  meant, and at once set off for Rob's.

"You'll let me gang a bit wi' you," the policeman entreated, "for  till Rob sent me on this errand not a soul has spoken to me the  day; ay, mony a ane hae I spoken to, but not a man, woman, nor  bairn would fling me a word."

"I often meant to ask you," Gavin said as they went along the  Tenements, which smelled at that hour of roasted potatoes, "why  you are so unpopular."

"It's because I'm police. I'm the first ane that has ever been in  Thrums, and the very folk that appointed me at a crown a week  looks upon me as a disgraced man for accepting. It's Gospel that  my ain wife is short wi' me when I've on my uniform, though weel  she kens that I would rather hae stuck to the loom if I hadna  ha'en sic a queer richt leg. Nobody feels the shame o' my position  as I do mysel', but this is a town without pity."

"It should be a consolation to you that you are discharging useful  duties."

"But I'm no. I'm doing harm. There's Charles Dickson says that the  very sicht o' my uniform rouses his dander so muckle that it makes  him break windows, though a peaceably-disposed man till I was  appointed. And what's the use o' their haeing a policeman when  they winna come to the lock-up after I lay hands on them?"

"Do they say they won't come?"

"Say? Catch them saying onything! They just gie me a wap into the  gutters. If they would speak I wouldna complain, for I'm nat'rally  the sociablest man in Thrums."

"Rob, however, had spoken to you."

"Because he had need o' me. That was ay Rob's way, converted or no  converted. When he was blind drunk he would order me to see him  safe hame, but would he crack wi' me? Na, na."

Wearyworld, who was so called because of his forlorn way of  muttering, "It's a weary warld, and nobody bides in't," as he went  his melancholy rounds, sighed like one about to cry, and Gavin  changed the subject.

"Is the watch for the soldiers still kept up?" he asked.

"It is, but the watchers winna let me in aside them. I'll let you  see that for yoursel' at me head o' the Roods, for they watch  there in the auld windmill."

Most of the Thrums lights were already out, and that in the  windmill disappeared as footsteps were heard.

"You're desperate characters," the policeman cried, but got no  answer. He changed his tactics.

"A fine nicht for the time o' year," he cried. No answer.

"But I wouldna wonder," he shouted, "though we had rain afore  morning." No answer.

"Surely you could gie me a word frae ahint the door. You're doing  an onlawful thing, but I dinna ken wha you are."

"You'll swear to that?" some one asked gruffly.

"I swear to it, Peter."

Wearyworld tried another six remarks in vain.

"Ay," he said to the minister, "that's what it is to be an  onpopular man. And now I'll hae to turn back, for the very anes  that winna let me join them would be the first to complain if I  gaed out o' bounds."

Gavin found Dow at New Zealand, a hamlet of mud houses, whose  tenants could be seen on any Sabbath morning washing themselves in  the burn that trickled hard by. Rob's son, Micah, was asleep at  the door, but he brightened when he saw who was shaking him.

"My father put me out," he explained, "because he's daft for the  drink, and was fleid he would curse me. He hasna cursed me," Micah  added, proudly, "for an aught days come Sabbath. Hearken to him at  his loom. He daurna take his feet off the treadles for fear o'  running straucht to the drink."

Gavin went in. The loom, and two stools, the one four-footed and  the other a buffet, were Rob's most conspicuous furniture. A  shaving-strap hung on the wall. The fire was out, but the trunk of  a tree, charred at one end, showed how he heated his house. He  made a fire of peat, and on it placed one end of a tree trunk that  might be six feet long. As the tree burned away it was pushed  further into the fireplace, and a roaring fire could always be got  by kicking pieces of the smouldering wood and blowing them into  flame with the bellows. When Rob saw the minister he groaned  relief and left his loom. He had been weaving, his teeth clenched,  his eyes on fire, for seven hours.

"I wasna fleid," little Micah said to the neighbours afterwards,  "to gang in wi' the minister. He's a fine man that. He didna ca'  my father names. Na, he said, 'You're a brave fellow, Rob,' and he  took my father's hand, he did. My father was shaking after his  fecht wi' the drink, and, says he. 'Mr. Dishart,' he says, 'if  you'll let me break out nows and nans, I could, bide straucht  atween times, but I canna keep sober if I hinna a drink to look  forrit to.' Ay, my father prigged sair to get one fou day in the  month, and he said, 'Syne if I die sudden, there's thirty chances  to one that I gang to heaven, so it's worth risking.' But Mr.  Dishart wouldna hear o't, and he cries, 'No, by God,' he cries,  'we'll wrestle wi' the devil till we throttle him,' and down him  and my father gaed on their knees.

"The minister prayed a lang time till my father said his hunger  for the drink was gone, 'but', he says, 'it swells up in me o' a  sudden aye, and it may be back afore you're hame.' 'Then come to  me at once,' says Mr. Dishart; but my father says, 'Na, for it  would haul me into the public-house as if it had me at the end o'  a rope, but I'll send the laddie."

"You saw my father crying the minister back? It was to gie him twa  pound, and, says my father, 'God helping me,' he says, 'I'll droon  mysel in the dam rather than let the drink master me, but in case  it should get haud o' me and I should die drunk, it would be a  michty gratification to me to ken that you had the siller to bury  me respectable without ony help frae the poor's rates.' The  minister wasna for taking it at first, but he took it when he saw  how earnest my father was. Ay, he's a noble man. After he gaed awa  my father made me learn the names o' the apostles frae Luke sixth,  and he says to me, 'Miss out Bartholomew,' he says, 'for he did  little, and put Gavin Dishart in his place.'"

Feeling as old as he sometimes tried to look, Gavin turned  homeward. Margaret was already listening for him. You may be sure  she knew his step. I think our steps vary as much as the human  face. My book-shelves were made by a blind man who could identify  by their steps nearly all who passed his window. Yet he has  admitted to me that he could not tell wherein my steps differed  from others; and this I believe, though rejecting his boast that  he could distinguish a minister's step from a doctor's, and even  tell to which denomination the minister belonged.

I have sometimes asked myself what would have been Gavin's future  had he gone straight home that night from Dow's. He would  doubtless have seen the Egyptian before morning broke, but she  would not have come upon him like a witch. There are, I dare say,  many lovers who would never have been drawn to each other had they  met for the first time, as, say, they met the second time. But  such dreaming is to no purpose. Gavin met Sanders Webster, the  mole-catcher, and was persuaded by him to go home by Caddam Wood.

Gavin took the path to Caddam, because Sanders told him the Wild  Lindsays were there, a gypsy family that threatened the farmers by  day and danced devilishly, it was said, at night. The little  minister knew them by repute as a race of giants, and that not  many persons would have cared to face them alone at midnight; but  he was feeling as one wound up to heavy duties, and meant to  admonish them severely.

Sanders, an old man who lived with his sister Nanny on the edge of  the wood, went with him, and for a time both were silent. But  Sanders had something to say.

"Was you ever at the Spittal, Mr. Dishart?" he asked.

"Lord Rintoul's house at the top of Glen Quharity? No."

"Hae you ever looked on a lord?"

"No."

"Or on an auld lord's young leddyship? I have."

"What is she?"

"You surely ken that Rintoul's auld, and is to be married on a  young leddyship. She's no' a leddyship yet, but they're to be  married soon, so I may say I've seen a leddyship. Ay, an  impressive sicht. It was yestreen."

"Is there a great difference in their ages?"

"As muckle as atween auld Peter Spens and his wife, wha was  saxteen when he was saxty, and she was playing at dumps in the  street when her man was waiting for her to make his porridge. Ay,  sic a differ doesna suit wi' common folk, but of course earls can  please themsels. Rintoul's so fond o' the leddyship 'at is to be,  that when she was at the school in Edinbury he wrote to her ilka  day. Kaytherine Crummie telled me that, and she says aince you're  used to it, writing letters is as easy as skinning moles. I dinna  ken what they can write sic a heap about, but I daur say he gies  her his views on the Chartist agitation and the potato disease,  and she'll write back about the romantic sichts o' Edinbury and  the sermons o' the grand preachers she hears. Sal, though, thae  grand folk has no religion to speak o', for they're a' English  kirk. You're no' speiring what her leddyship said to me?"

"What did she say?"

"Weel, you see, there was a dancing ball on, and Kaytherine  Crummie took me to a window whaur I could stand on a flower-pot  and watch the critturs whirling round in the ball like teetotums.  What's mair, she pointed out the leddyship that's to be to me, and  I just glowered at her, for thinks I, 'Take your fill, Sanders,  and whaur there's lords and leddyships, dinna waste a minute on  colonels and honourable misses and sic like dirt.' Ay, but what  wi' my een blinking at the blaze o' candles, I lost sicht o' her  till all at aince somebody says at my lug, 'Well, my man, and who  is the prettiest lady in the room?' Mr. Dishart, it was her  leddyship. She looked like a star."

"And what did you do?"

"The first thing I did was to fall aff the flower-pot; but syne I  came to, and says I, wi' a polite smirk, 'I'm thinking your  leddyship,' says I, 'as you're the bonniest yourself.'"

"I see you are a cute man, Sanders.'"

"Ay, but that's no' a'. She lauched in a pleased way and tapped me  wi' her fan, and says she, 'Why do you think me the prettiest?' I  dinna deny but what that staggered me, but I thocht a minute, and  took a look at the other dancers again, and syne I says, michty  sly like, 'The other leddies,' I says, 'has sic sma' feet.'"

Sanders stopped here and looked doubtingly at Gavin.

"I canna make up my mind," he said, "whether she liked that, for  she rapped my knuckles wi' her fan fell sair, and aff she gaed.  Ay, I consulted Tammas Haggart about it, and he says, 'The flirty  crittur,' he says. What would you say, Mr. Dishart?"

Gavin managed to escape without giving an answer, for here their  roads separated. He did not find the Wild Lindsays, however.  Children of whim, of prodigious strength while in the open, but  destined to wither quickly in the hot air of towns, they had gone  from Caddam, leaving nothing of themselves behind but a black mark  burned by their fires into the ground. Thus they branded the earth  through many counties until some hour when the spirit of wandering  again fell on them, and they forsook their hearths with as little  compunction as the bird leaves its nest.

Gavin had walked quickly, and he now stood silently in the wood,  his hat in his hand. In the moonlight the grass seemed tipped with  hoar frost. Most of the beeches were already bare, but the shoots,  clustering round them, like children at their mother's skirts,  still retained their leaves red and brown. Among the pines these  leaves were as incongruous as a wedding-dress at a funeral. Gavin  was standing on grass, but there were patches of heather within  sight, and broom, and the leaf of the blaeberry. Where the beeches  had drawn up the earth with them as they grew, their roots ran  this way and that, slippery to the feet and looking like  disinterred bones. A squirrel appeared suddenly on the charred  ground, looked doubtfully at Gavin to see if he was growing there,  and then glided up a tree, where it sat eyeing him, and forgetting  to conceal its shadow. Caddam was very still. At long intervals  came from far away the whack of an axe on wood. Gavin was in a  world by himself, and this might be someone breaking into it.

The mystery of woods by moonlight thrilled the little minister.  His eyes rested on the shining roots, and he remembered what had  been told him of the legend of Caddam, how once on a time it was a  mighty wood, and a maiden most beautiful stood on its confines,  panting and afraid, for a wicked man pursued her; how he drew  near, and she ran a little way into the wood, and he followed her,  and she still ran, and still he followed, until both were for ever  lost, and the bones of her pursuer lie beneath a beech, but the  lady may still be heard singing in the woods if the night be fine,  for then she is a glad spirit, but weeping when there is wild  wind, for then she is but a mortal seeking a way out of the wood.

The squirrel slid down the fir and was gone. The axe's blows  ceased. Nothing that moved was in sight. The wind that has its  nest in trees was circling around with many voices, that never  rose above a whisper, and were often but the echo of a sigh. Gavin  was in the Caddam of past days, where the beautiful maiden wanders  ever, waiting for him who is so pure that he may find her. He will  wander over the tree-tops looking for her, with the moon for his  lamp, and some night he will hear her singing. The little minister  drew a deep breath, and his foot snapped a brittle twig. Then he  remembered who and where he was, and stooped to pick up his staff.  But he did not pick it up, for as his fingers were closing on it  the lady began to sing.

For perhaps a minute Gavin stood stock still, like an intruder.  Then he ran towards the singing, which seemed to come from Windy  ghoul, a straight road through Caddam that farmers use in summer,  but leave in the back end of the year to leaves and pools. In  Windyghoul there is either no wind or so much that it rushes down  the sieve like an army, entering with a shriek of terror, and  escaping with a derisive howl. The moon was crossing the avenue.  But Gavin only saw the singer.

She was still fifty yards away, sometimes singing gleefully, and  again letting her body sway lightly as she came dancing up  Windyghoul. Soon she was within a few feet of the little minister,  to whom singing, except when out of tune, was a suspicious thing,  and dancing a device of the devil. His arm went out wrathfully,  and his intention was to pronounce sentence on this woman.

But she passed, unconscious of his presence, and he had not moved  nor spoken. Though really of the average height, she was a little  thing to the eyes of Gavin, who always felt tall and stout except  when he looked down. The grace of her swaying figure was a new

CHAPTER V.   - A WARLIKE CHAPTER, CULMINATING IN THE FLOUTING OF THE MINISTER BY  THE WOMAN.

"Mr. DISHART!"

Jean had clutched at Gavin in Bank Street. Her hair was streaming,  and her wrapper but half buttoned.

"Oh, Mr. Dishart, look at the mistress! I couldna keep her in the  manse."

Gavin saw his mother beside him, bare-headed, trembling.

"How could I sit still, Gavin, and the town full o' the skirls of  women and bairns? Oh, Gavin, what can I do for them? They will  suffer most this night."

As Gavin took her hand he knew that Margaret felt for the people  more than he.

"But you must go home, mother," he said, "and leave me to do my  duty. I will take you myself if you will not go with Jean. Be  careful of her, Jean."

"Ay, will I," Jean answered, then burst into tears. "Mr.  Dishart,"' she cried, "if they take my father they'd best take my  mither too."

The two women went back to the manse, where Jean re-lit the fire,  having nothing else to do, and boiled the kettle, while Margaret  wandered in anguish from room to room.

Men nearly naked ran past Gavin, seeking to escape from Thrums by  the fields he had descended. When he shouted to them they only ran  faster. A Tillyloss weaver whom he tried to stop struck him  savagely and sped past to the square. In Bank Street, which was  full move. He had heard the horn. Thrice it sounded, and thrice it  struck him to the heart. He looked again and saw a shadow stealing  along the Tenements, then, another, then half-a-dozen. He  remembered Mr. Carfrae's words, "If you ever hear that horn, I  implore you to hasten to the square," and in another minute he had  reached the Tenements.

Now again he saw the gypsy. She ran past him, half-a-score of men,  armed with staves and pikes, at her heels. At first he thought  they were chasing her. but they were following her as a leader.  Her eyes sparkled as she waved them to the square with her arms.

"The soldiers, the soldiers!" was the universal cry.

"Who is that woman?" demanded Gavin, catching hold of a frightened  old man.

"Curse the Egyptian limmer," the man answered, "she's egging my  laddie on to fecht."

"Bless her rather," the son cried, "for warning us that the sojers  is coming. Put your ear to the ground, Mr. Dishart, and you'll  hear the dirl o' their feet."

The young man rushed away to the square, flinging his father from  him. Gavin followed. As he turned into the school wynd, the town  drum began to beat, windows were thrown open, and sullen men ran  out of closes where women were screaming and trying to hold them  back. At the foot of the wynd Gavin passed Sanders Webster.

"Mr. Dishart," the mole-catcher cried, "hae you seen that  Egyptian? May I be struck dead if it's no' her little leddyship."

But Gavin did not hear him. thing in the world to him. Only while  she passed did he see her as a gleam of colour, a gypsy elf poorly  clad, her bare feet flashing beneath a short green skirt, a twig  of rowan berries stuck carelessly into her black hair. Her face  was pale. She had an angel's loveliness. Gavin shook.

Still she danced onwards, but she was very human, for when she  came to muddy water she let her feet linger in it, and flung up  her arms, dancing more wantonly than before. A diamond on her  finger shot a thread of fire over the pool. Undoubtedly she was  the devil.

Gavin leaped into the avenue, and she heard him and looked behind.  He tried to cry "Woman!" sternly, but lost the word, for now she  saw him, and laughed with her shoulders, and beckoned to him, so  that he shook his fist at her. She tripped on, but often turning  her head beckoned and mocked him, and he forgot his dignity and  his pulpit and all other things, and ran after her. Up Windyghoul  did he pursue her, and it was well that the precentor was not  there to see. She reached the mouth of the avenue, and kissing her  hand to Gavin, so that the ring gleamed again, was gone.

The minister's one thought was to find her, but he searched in  vain. She might be crossing the hill on her way to Thrums, or  perhaps she was still laughing at him from behind a tree. After a  longer time than he was aware of, Gavin realised that his boots  were chirping and his trousers streaked with mud. Then he  abandoned the search and hastened homewards in a rage.

From the hill to the manse the nearest way is down two fields, and  the little minister descended them rapidly. Thrums, which is red  in daylight, was grey and still as the cemetery. He had glimpses  of several of its deserted streets. To the south the watch-light  showed brightly, but no other was visible. So it seemed to Gavin,  and then--suddenly--he lost the power to of people at one moment  and empty the next, the minister stumbled over old Charles Yuill,

"Take me and welcome," Yuill cried, mistaking Gavin for the enemy.  He had only one arm through the sleeve of his jacket, and his feet  were bare.

"I am Mr. Dishart. Are the soldiers already in the square, Yuill?"

"They'll be there in a minute."

The man was so weak that Gavin had to hold him.

"Be a man, Charles. You have nothing to fear. It is not such as  you the soldiers have come for. If need be, I can swear that you  had not the strength, even if you had the will, to join in the  weavers' riot."

"For Godsake, Mr. Dishart," Yuill cried, his hands chattering on  Gavin's coat, "dinna swear that. My laddie was in the thick o' the  riot; and if he's ta'en there's the poor's-house gaping for Kitty  and me, for I couldna weave half a web a week. If there's a  warrant agin onybody o' the name of Yuill, swear it's me; swear  I'm a desperate character, swear I'm michty strong for all I look  palsied; and if when they take me, my courage breaks down, swear  the mair, swear I confessed my guilt to you on the Book."

As Yuill spoke the quick rub-a-dub of a drum was heard.

"The soldiers!" Gavin let go his hold of the old man, who hastened  away to give himself up.

"That's no the sojers," said a woman; "it's the folk gathering in  the square. This'll be a watery Sabbath In Thrums."

"Rob Dow," shouted Gavin, as Dow flung past with a scythe in his  hand, "lay down that scythe."

"To hell wi' religion!" Rob retorted, fiercely; "it spoils a'  thing."

"Lay down that scythe; I command you."

Rob stopped undecidedly, then cast the scythe from him, but its  rattle on the stones was more than he could bear.

"I winna," he cried, and, picking it up, ran to the square.

An upper window in Bank Street opened, and Dr. McQueen put out his  head. He was smoking as usual.

"Mr. Dishart," he said, "you will return home at once if you are a  wise man; or, better still, come in here. You can do nothing with  these people to-night."

"I can stop their fighting."

"You will only make black blood between them and you."

"Dinna heed him, Mr. Dishart," cried some women.

"You had better heed him," cried a man.

"I will not desert my people," Gavin said.

"Listen, then, to my prescription," the doctor replied. "Drive  that gypsy lassie out of the town before the soldiers reach it.  She is firing the men to a red-heat through sheer devilry."

"She brocht the news, or we would have been nipped in our beds,"  some people cried.

"Does any one know who she is?" Gavin demanded, but all shook  their heads. The Egyptian, as they called her, had never been seen  in these parts before.

"Has any other person seen the soldiers?" he asked. "Perhaps this  is a false alarm."

"Several have seen them within the last few minutes," the doctor  answered. "They came from Tilliedrum, and were advancing on us  from the south, but when they heard that we had got the alarm they  stopped at the top of the brae, near T'nowhead's farm. Man, you  would take these things more coolly if you smoked."

"Show me this woman," Gavin said sternly to those who had been  listening. Then a stream of people carried him into the square.

The square has altered little, even in these days of enterprise,  when Tillyloss has become Newton Bank. and the Craft Head Croft  Terrace, with enamelled labels on them for the guidance of slow  people, who forget their address and have to run to the end of the  street and look up every time they write a letter. The stones on  which the butter-wives sat have disappeared, and with them the  clay walls and the outside stairs. Gone, too, is the stair of the  town-house, from the top of which the drummer roared the gossip of  the week on Sabbaths to country folk, to the scandal of all who  knew that the proper thing on that day is to keep your blinds  down; but the townhouse itself, round and red, still makes exit to  the south troublesome. Wherever streets meet the square there is a  house in the centre of them, and thus the heart of Thrums is a  box, in which the stranger finds himself suddenly, wondering at  first how he is to get out, and presently how he got in.

To Gavin, who never before had seen a score of people in the  square at once, here was a sight strange and terrible. Andrew  Struthers, an old soldier, stood on the outside stair of the town-  house, shouting words of command to some fifty weavers, many of  them scantily clad, but all armed with pikes and poles. Most were  known to the little minister, but they wore faces that were new to  him. Newcomers joined the body every moment. If the drill was  clumsy the men were fierce. Hundreds of people gathered around,  some screaming, some shaking their fists at the old soldier, many  trying to pluck their relatives out of danger. Gavin could not see  the Egyptian. Women and old men, fighting for the possession of  his ear, implored him to disperse the armed band. He ran up the  town-house stair, and in a moment it had become a pulpit.

"Dinna dare to interfere, Mr. Dishart," Struthers said savagely.

"Andrew Struthers," said Gavin solemnly, "in the name of God I  order you to leave me alone. If you don't," he added ferociously,  "I'll fling you over the stair."

"Dinna heed him, Andrew," some one shouted and another cried, "He  canna understand our sufferings; he has dinner ilka day."

Struthers faltered, however, and Gavin cast his eye over the armed  men.

"Rob Dow," he said, "William Carmichael, Thomas Whamond, William  Munn, Alexander Hobart, Henders Haggart, step forward."

These were Auld Lichts, and when they found that the minister  would not take his eyes off them, they obeyed, all save Rob Dow.

"Never mind him, Rob," said the atheist, Cruickshanks, "it's  better playing cards in hell than singing psalms in heaven."

"Joseph Cruickshanks," responded Gavin grimly, "you will find no  cards down there."

Then Rob also came to the foot of the stair. There was some angry  muttering from the crowd, and young Charles Yuill exclaimed,  "Curse you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as weel as on  Sabbaths?"

"Lay down your weapons," Gavin said to the six men.

They looked at each other. Hobart slipped his pike behind his  back.

"I hae no weapon," he said slily.

"Let me hae my fling this nicht," Dow entreated, "and I'll promise  to bide sober for a twelvemonth."

"Oh, Rob, Rob!" the minister said bitterly, "are you the man I  prayed with a few hours ago?"

The scythe fell from Rob's hands.

"Down wi' your pikes," he roared to his companions, "or I'll brain  you wi' them."

"Ay, lay them down," the precentor whispered, "but keep your feet  on them."

Then the minister, who was shaking with excitement, though he did  not know it, stretched forth his arms for silence, and it came so  suddenly as to frighten the people in the neighboring streets.

"If he prays we're done for," cried young Charles Yuill. but even  in that hour many of the people were unbonneted.

"Oh, Thou who art the Lord of hosts," Gavin prayed, "we are in Thy  hands this night. These are Thy people, and they have sinned; but  Thou art a merciful God, and they were sore tried, and knew not  what they did. To Thee, our God, we turn for deliverance, for  without Thee we are lost."

The little minister's prayer was heard all round the square, and  many weapons were dropped as an Amen to it.

"If you fight," cried Gavin, brightening as he heard the clatter  of the iron on the stones, "your wives and children may be shot in  the streets. These soldiers have come for a dozen of you; will you  be benefited if they take away a hundred?"

"Oh, hearken to him," cried many women.

"I winna," answered a man, "for I'm ane o' the dozen. Whaur's the  Egyptian?"

"Here."

Gavin saw the crowd open, and the woman of Windy ghoul come out of  it, and, while he should have denounced her, he only blinked, for  once more her loveliness struck him full in the eyes. She was  beside him on the stair before he became a minister again.

"How dare you, woman?" he cried; but she flung a rowan berry at  him.

"If I were a man," she exclaimed, addressing the people, "I  wouldna let myself be catched like a mouse in a trap."

"We winna," some answered.

"What kind o' women are you," cried the Egyptian, her face  gleaming as she turned to her own sex, "that bid your men folk  gang to gaol when a bold front would lead them to safety? Do you  want to be husbandless and hameless?"

"Disperse, I command you!" cried Gavin. "This abandoned woman is  inciting you to riot."

"Dinna heed this little man," the Egyptian retorted.

It is curious to know that even at that anxious moment Gavin  winced because she called him little.

"She has the face of a mischief-maker," he shouted, "and her words  are evil."

"You men and women o' Thrums," she responded, "ken that I wish you  weel by the service I hae done you this nicht. Wha telled you the  sojers was coming?"

"It was you; it was you!"

"Ay, and mony a mile I ran to bring the news, Listen, and I'll  tell you mair."

"She has a false tongue," Gavin cried; "listen not to the brazen  woman."

"What I have to tell," she said, "is as true as what I've telled  already, and how true that is you a' ken. You're wondering how the  sojers has come to a stop at the tap o' the brae instead o'  marching on the town. Here's the reason. They agreed to march  straucht to the square if the alarm wasna given, but if it was  they were to break into small bodies and surround the town so that  you couldna get out. That's what they're doing now."

At this the screams were redoubled, and many men lifted the  weapons they had dropped.

"Believe her not," cried Gavin. "How could a wandering gypsy know  all this?"

"Ay, how can you ken?" some demanded.

"It's enough that I do ken," the Egyptian answered. "And this mair  I ken, that the captain of the soldiers is confident he'll nab  every one o' you that's wanted anless you do one thing."

"What is 't?"

"If you a' run different ways you're lost, but if you keep  thegither you'll be able to force a road into the country, whaur  you can scatter. That's what he's fleid you'll do."

"Then it's what we will do."

"It is what you will not do," Gavin said passionately. "The truth  is not in this wicked woman."

But scarcely had he spoken when he knew that startling news had  reached the square. A murmur arose on the skirts of the mob, and  swept with the roar of the sea towards the town-house. A  detachment of the soldiers were marching down the Roods from the  north.

"There's some coming frae the east-town end," was the next  intelligence; "and they've gripped Sanders Webster, and auld  Charles Yuill has given himsel' up."

"You see, you see," the gypsy said, flashing triumph at Gavin.

"Lay down your weapons," Gavin cried, but his power over the  people had gone.

"The Egyptian spoke true," they shouted; "dinna heed the  minister."

Gavin tried to seize the gypsy by the shoulders, but she slipped  past him down the stair, and crying "Follow me!" ran round the  town-house and down the brae.

"Woman!" he shouted after her, but she only waved her arms  scornfully. The people followed her, many of the men still  grasping their weapons, but all in disorder. Within a minute after  Gavin saw the gleam of the ring on her finger, as she waved her  hands, he and Dow were alone in the square.

"She's an awfu' woman that," Rob said." I saw her lauching."

Gavin ground his teeth.

"Rob Dow," he said, slowly, "if I had not found Christ I would  have throttled that woman. You saw how she flouted me?"

CHAPTER VI.   - IN WHICH THE SOLDIERS MEET THE AMAZONS OF THRUMS

Dow looked shamefacedly at the minister, and then set off up the  square.

"Where are you going, Rob?"

"To gie myself up. I maun do something to let you see there's one  man in Thrums that has mair faith in you than in a fliskmahoy."

"And only one, Rob. But I don't know that they want to arrest  you."

"Ay, I had a hand in tying the polissman to the--"

"I want to hear nothing about that," Gavin said, quickly.

"Will I hide, then?"

"I dare not advise you to do that. It would be wrong."

Half a score of fugitives tore past the town-house, and were out  of sight without a cry. There was a tread of heavier feet, and a  dozen soldiers, with several policemen and two prisoners, appeared  suddenly on the north side of the square.

"Rob," cried the minister in desperation, "run!"

When the soldiers reached the town-house, where they locked up  their prisoners, Dow was skulking east-ward, and Gavin running  down the brae.

"They're fechting," he was told, "they're fechting on the brae,  the sojers is firing, a man's killed!"

But this was an exaggeration.

The brae, though short, is very steep. There is a hedge on one  side of it, from which the land falls away, and on the other side  a hillock. Gavin reached the scene to see the soldiers marching  down the brae, guarding a small body of policemen. The armed  weavers were retreating before them. A hundred women or more were  on the hillock, shrieking and gesticulating. Gavin joined them,  calling on them not to fling the stones they had begun to gather.

The armed men broke into a rabble, flung down their weapons, and  fled back towards the town-house. Here they almost ran against the  soldiers in the square, who again forced them into the brae.  Finding themselves about to be wedged between the two forces, some  crawled through the hedge, where they were instantly seized by  policemen. Others sought to climb up the hillock and then escape  into the country. The policemen clambered after them. The men were  too frightened to fight, but a woman seized a policeman by the  waist and flung him head foremost among the soldiers. One of these  shouted "Fire!" but the captain cried "No." Then came showers of  missiles from the women. They stood their ground and defended the  retreat of the scared men.

Who flung the first stone is not known, but it is believed to have  been the Egyptian. The policemen were recalled, and the whole body  ordered to advance down the brae. Thus the weavers who had not  escaped at once were driven before them, and soon hemmed in  between the two bodies of soldiers, when they were easily  captured. But for two minutes there was a thick shower of stones  and clods of earth.

It was ever afterwards painful to Gavin to recall this scene, but  less on account of the shower of stones than because of the flight  of one divit in it. He had been watching the handsome young  captain, Halliwell, riding with his men; admiring him, too, for  his coolness. This coolness exasperated the gypsy, who twice flung  at Halliwell and missed him. He rode on smiling contemptuously.

"Oh, if I could only fling straight!" the Egyptian moaned.

Then she saw the minister by her side, and in the tick of a clock  something happened that can never be explained. For the moment  Gavin was so lost in misery over the probable effect of the  night's rioting that he had forgotten where he was. Suddenly the  Egyptian's beautiful face was close to his, and she pressed a  divit into his hand, at the same time pointing at the officer, and  whispering "Hit him."

Gavin flung the clod of earth, and hit Halliwell on the head.

I say I cannot explain this. I tell what happened, and add with  thankfulness that only the Egyptian witnessed the deed. Gavin, I  suppose, had flung the divit before he could stay his hand. Then  he shrank in horror.

"Woman!" he cried again.

"You are a dear," she said, and vanished.

By the time Gavin was breathing freely again the lock-up was  crammed with prisoners, and the Riot Act had been read from the  town-house stair. It is still remembered that the baron-bailie, to  whom this duty fell, had got no further than, "Victoria, by the  Grace of God," when the paper was struck out of his hands.

When a stirring event occurs up here we smack our lips over it for  months, and so I could still write a history of that memorable  night in Thrums. I could tell how the doctor, a man whose  shoulders often looked as if they had been caught in a shower of  tobacco ash, brought me the news to the school-house, and now,  when I crossed the fields to dumfounder Waster Lunny with it, I  found Birse, the post, reeling off the story to him as fast as a  fisher could let out line. I know who was the first woman on the  Marywell brae to hear the horn, and how she woke her husband, and  who heard it first at the Denhead and the Tenements, with what  they immediately said and did. I had from Dite Deuchar's own lips  the curious story of his sleeping placidly throughout the whole  disturbance, and on wakening in the morning yoking to his loom as  usual; and also his statement that such ill-luck was enough to  shake a man's faith in religion. The police had knowledge that  enabled them to go straight to the houses of the weavers wanted,  but they sometimes brought away the wrong man, for such of the  people as did not escape from the town had swopped houses for the  night--a trick that served them better than all their drilling on  the hill. Old Yuill's son escaped by burying himself in a peat-  rick, and Snecky Hobart by pretending that he was a sack of  potatoes. Less fortunate was Sanders Webster, the mole-catcher  already mentioned. Sanders was really an innocent man. He had not  even been in Thrums on the night of the rising against the  manufacturers, but thinking that the outbreak was to be left  unpunished, he wanted his share in the glory of it. So he had  boasted of being a ringleader until many believed him, including  the authorities. His braggadocio undid him. He was run to earth in  a pig-sty, and got nine months. With the other arrests I need not  concern myself, for they have no part in the story of the little  minister.

While Gavin was with the families whose bread-winners were now in  the lock-up, a cell that was usually crammed on fair nights and  empty for the rest of the year, the sheriff and Halliwell were in  the round-room of the town-house, not in a good temper. They spoke  loudly, and some of their words sank into the cell below.

"The whole thing has been a fiasco," the sheriff was heard saying,  "owing to our failing to take them by surprise. Why, three-fourths  of those taken will have to be liberated, and we have let the  worst offenders slip through our hands."

"Well," answered Halliwell, who was wearing a heavy cloak, "I have  brought your policemen into the place, and that is all I undertook  to do."

"You brought them, but at the expense of alarming the country-  side. I wish we had come without you."

"Nonsense! My men advanced like ghosts. Could your police have  come down that brae alone to-night?"

"Yes, because it would have been deserted. Your soldiers, I tell  you, have done the mischief. This woman, who, so many of our  prisoners admit, brought the news of our coming, must either have  got it from one of your men or have seen them on the march."

"The men did not know their destination. True, she might have seen  us despite our precautions, but you forget that she told them how  we were to act in the event of our being seen. That is what  perplexes me."

"Yes, and me too, for it was a close secret between you and me and  Lord Rintoul and not half-a-dozen others."

"Well, find the woman, and we shall get the explanation. If she is  still in the town she cannot escape, for my men are everywhere."

"She was seen ten minutes ago."

"Then she is ours. I say, Riach, if I were you I would set all my  prisoners free and take away a cartload of their wives instead. I  have only seen the backs of the men of Thrums, but, on my word, I  very nearly ran away from the women. Hallo! I believe one of your  police has caught our virago single-handed."

So Halliwell exclaimed, hearing some one shout, "This is the  rascal!" But it was not the Egyptian who was then thrust into the  round-room. It was John Dunwoodie, looking very sly. Probably  there was not, even in Thrums, a cannier man than Dunwoodie. His  religious views were those of Cruickshanks, but he went regularly  to church "on the off-chance of there being a God after all; so  I'm safe, whatever side may be wrong."

"This is the man," explained a policeman, "who brought the alarm.  He admits himself having been in Tilliedrum just before we  started."

"Your name, my man?" the sheriff demanded.

"It micht be John Dunwoodie," the tinsmith answered cautiously.

"But is it?"

"I dinna say it's no."

"You were in Tilliedrum this evening?"

"I micht hae been."

"Were you?"

"I'll swear to nothing."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a canny man."

"Into the cell with him," Halliwell cried, losing patience.

"Leave him to me," said the sheriff. "I understand the sort of  man. Now, Dunwoodie, what were you doing in Tilliedrum?"

"I was taking my laddie down to be prenticed to a writer there,"  answered Dunwoodie, falling into the sheriff's net.

"What are you yourself?"

"I micht be a tinsmith to trade."

"And you, a mere tinsmith, dare to tell me that a lawyer was  willing to take your son into his office? Be cautious, Dunwoodie."

"Weel, then, the laddie's highly edicated and I hae siller, and  that's how the writer was to take him and make a gentleman o'  him."

"I learn from the neighbours," the policeman explained, "that this  is partly true, but what makes us suspect him is this. He left the  laddie at Tilliedrum, and yet when he came home the first person  he sees at the fireside is the laddie himself. The laddie had run  home, and the reason plainly was that he had heard of our  preparations and wanted to alarm the town."

"There seems something in this, Dunwoodie," the sheriff said, "and  if you cannot explain it I must keep you in custody."

"I'll make a clean breast o't," Dunwoodie replied, seeing that in  this matter truth was best. "The laddie was terrible against being  made a gentleman, and when he saw the kind o' life he would hae to  lead, clean hands, clean dickies, and no gutters on his breeks,  his heart took mair scunner at genteelity than ever, and he ran  hame. Ay, I was mad when I saw him at the fireside, but he says to  me, 'How would you like to be a gentleman yoursel', father?' he  says, and that so affected me 'at I'm to gie him his ain way."

Another prisoner, Dave Langlands, was confronted with Dunwoodie.

"John Dunwoodie's as innocent as I am mysel," Dave said, "and I'm  most michty innocent. It wasna John but the Egyptian that gave the  alarm. I tell you what, sheriff, if it'll make me innocenter-like  I'll picture the Egyptian to you just as I saw her, and syne  you'll be able to catch her easier."

"You are an honest fellow," said the sheriff.

"I only wish I had the whipping of him," growled Halliwell, who  was of a generous nature.

"For what business had she," continued Dave righteously, "to  meddle in other folks' business? She's no a Thrums lassie, and so  I say, 'Let the law take its course on her.'"

"Will you listen to such a cur, Riach?" asked Halliwell.

"Certainly. Speak out, Langlands."

"Weel, then, I was in the windmill the nicht."

"You were a watcher?"

"I happened to be in the windmill wi' another man," Dave went on,  avoiding the officer's question.

"What was his name?" demanded Halliwell.

"It was the Egyptian I was to tell you about," Dave said, looking  to the sheriff.

"Ah, yes, you only tell tales about women," said Halliwell.

"Strange women," corrected Dave. "Weel, we was there, and it would  maybe be twal o'clock, and we was speaking (but about lawful  things) when we heard some ane running yont the road. I keeked  through a hole in the door, and I saw it was an Egyptian lassie  'at I had never clapped een on afore. She saw the licht in the  window, and she cried, 'Hie, you billies in the windmill, the  sojers is coming!' I fell in a fricht, but the other man opened  the door, and again she cries, 'The sojers is coming; quick, or  you'll be ta'en.' At that the other man up wi' his bonnet and ran,  but I didna make off so smart."

"You had to pick yourself up first," suggested the officer.

"Sal, it was the lassie picked me up; ay, and she picked up a horn  at the same time."

"'Blaw on that,' she cried, 'and alarm the town.' But, sheriff, I  didna do't. Na, I had ower muckle respect for the law."

"In other words," said Halliwell, "you also bolted, and left the  gypsy to blow the horn herself."

"I dinna deny but what I made my feet my friend, but it wasna her  that blew the horn. I ken that, for I looked back and saw her  trying to do't, but she couldna, she didna ken the way."

"Then who did blow it?"

"The first man she met, I suppose. We a' kent that the horn was to  be the signal except Wearywarld. He's police, so we kept it frae  him."

"That is all you saw of the woman?"

"Ay, for I ran straucht to my garret, and there your men took me.  Can I gae hame now, sheriff?"

"No. you cannot. Describe the woman's appearance."

"She had a heap o' rowan berries stuck in her hair, and, I think,  she had on a green wrapper and a red shawl. She had a most  extraordinary face. I canna exact describe it, for she would be  lauchin' one second and syne solemn the next. I tell you her face  changed as quick as you could turn the pages o' a book. Ay, here  comes Wearywarld to speak up for me."

Wearyworld entered cheerfully.

"This is the local policeman," a Tilliedrum officer said; "we have  been searching for him everywhere, and only found him now."

"Where have you been?" asked the sheriff, wrathfully.

"Whaur maist honest men is at this hour," replied Wearyworld; "in  my bed."

"How dared yon ignore your duty at such a time?"

"It's a long story," the policeman answered, pleasantly, in  anticipation of a talk at last.

"Answer me in a word."

"In a word!" cried the policeman, quite crestfallen. "It canna be  done. You'll need to cross-examine me, too. It's my lawful richt."

"I'll take you to the Tilliedrum gaol for your share in this  night's work if you do not speak to the purpose. Why did you not  hasten to our assistance?"

"As sure as death I never kent you was here. I was up the Roods on  my rounds when I heard an awfu' din down in the square, and thinks  I, there's rough characters about, and the place for honest folk  is their bed. So to my bed I gaed, and I was in't when your men  gripped me." "We must see into this before we leave. In the  meantime you will act as a guide to my searchers. Stop! Do you  know anything of this Egyptian?"

"What Egyptian? Is't a lassie wi' rowans in her hair?"

"The same. Have you seen her?"

"That I have. There's nothing agin her, is there? Whatever it is,  I'll uphaud she didna do't, for a simpler, franker-spoken crittur  couldna be."

"Never mind what I want her for. When did you see her?"

"It would be about twal o'clock," began Wearyworld unctuously,  "when I was in the Roods, ay, no lang afore I heard the  disturbance in the square. I was standing in the middle o' the  road, wondering how the door o' the windmill was swinging open,  when she came up to me.

"'A fine nicht for the time o' year,' I says to her, for nobody  but the minister had spoken to me a' day.

"'A very fine nicht,' says she, very frank, though she was  breathing quick like as if she had been running, 'You'll be  police?' says she.

"'I am,' says I, 'and wha be you?'

"'I'm just a puir gypsy lassie,' she says.

"'And what's that in your hand?' says I.

"'It's a horn I found in the wood,' says she, 'but it's rusty and  winna blaw.'

"I laughed at her ignorance, and says I, 'I warrant I could blaw  it,'

"'I dinna believe you,' says she.

"'Gie me haud o't,' says I, and she gae it to me, and I blew some  bonny blasts on't. Ay, you see she didna ken the way o't. 'Thank  you kindly,' says she, and she ran awa without even minding to  take the horn back again."

"You incredible idiot!" cried the sheriff. "Then it was you who  gave the alarm?"

"What hae I done to madden you?" honest Wearyworld asked in  perplexity.

"Get out of my sight, sir!" roared the sheriff.

But the captain laughed.

"I like your doughty policeman, Riach," he said. "Hie, obliging  friend, let us hear how this gypsy struck you. How was she  dressed?"

"She was snod, but no unca snod," replied Weary. world, stiffly.

"I don't understand you."

"I mean she was couthie, but no sair in order."

"What on earth is that?"

"Weel, a tasty stocky, but gey orra put on."

"What language are you speaking, you enigma?"

"I'm saying she was naturally a bonny bit kimmer rather than  happit up to the nines."

"Oh, go away," cried Halliwell; whereupon Weary-world descended  the stair haughtily, declaring that the sheriff was an  unreasonable man, and that he was a queer captain who did not  understand the English language.

"Can I gae hame now, sheriff?" asked Langlands, hopefully.

"Take this fellow back to his cell," Riach directed shortly, "and  whatever else you do, see that you capture this woman. Halliwell,  I am going out to look for her myself. Confound it, what are you  laughing at?"

"At the way this vixen has slipped through your fingers."

"Not quite that, sir, not quite that. She is in Thrums still, and  I swear I'll have her before day breaks. See to it, Halliwell,  that if she is brought here in my absence she does not slip  through your fingers."

"If she is brought here," said Halliwell, mocking him, "you must  return and protect me. It would be cruelty to leave a poor soldier  in the hands of a woman of Thrums."

"She is not a Thrums woman. You have been told so a dozen times."

"Then I am not afraid."

In the round-room (which is oblong) there is a throne on which the  bailie sits when he dispenses justice. It is swathed in red cloths  that give it the appearance of a pulpit. Left to himself,  Halliwell flung off his cloak and taking a chair near this dais  rested his legs on the bare wooden table, one on each side of the  lamp. He was still in this position when the door opened, and two  policemen thrust the Egyptian into the room.

CHAPTER VII.   - HAS THE FOLLY OF LOOKING INTO A WOMAN'S EYES BY WAY OF TEXT.

"This is the woman, captain," one of the policemen said in  triumph; "and, begging your pardon, will you keep a grip of her  till the sheriff comes back?"

Halliwell did not turn his head.

"You can leave her here." he said carelessly, "Three of us are not  needed to guard a woman."

"But she's a slippery customer."

"You can go," said Halliwell; and the policemen withdrew slowly,  eyeing their prisoner doubtfully until the door closed. Then the  officer wheeled round languidly, expecting to find the Egyptian  gaunt and muscular.

"Now then," he drawled, "why--By Jove!"

The gallant soldier was as much taken aback as if he had turned to  find a pistol at his ear. He took his feet off the table. Yet he  only saw the gypsy's girlish figure in its red and green, for she  had covered her face with her hands. She was looking at him  intently between her fingers, but he did not know this. All he did  want to know just then was what was behind the hands.

Before he spoke again she had perhaps made up her mind about him,  for she began to sob bitterly. At the same time she slipped a  finger over her ring.

"Why don't you look at me?" asked Halliwell, selfishly.

"I daurna."

"Am I so fearsome?"

"You're a sojer, and you would shoot me like a craw."

Halliwell laughed, and taking her wrists in his hands, uncovered  her face.

"Oh, by Jove!" he said again, but this time to himself.

As for the Egyptian, she slid the ring into her pocket, and fell  back before the officer's magnificence.

"Oh," she cried, "is all sojers like you?"

There was such admiration in her eyes that it would have been  self-contempt to doubt her. Yet having smiled complacently,  Halliwell became uneasy.

"Who on earth are you?" he asked, finding it wise not to look her  in the face. "Why do you not answer me more quickly?"

"Dinna be angry at that, captain," the Egyptian implored. "I  promised my mither aye to count twenty afore I spoke, because she  thocht I was ower glib. Captain, how is't that you're so fleid to  look at me?"

Thus put on his mettle, Halliwell again faced her, with the result  that his question changed to "Where did you get those eyes?" Then  was he indignant with himself.

"What I want to know," he explained severely, "is how you were  able to acquaint the Thrums people with our movements? That you  must tell me at once, for the sheriff blames my soldiers. Come  now, no counting twenty!"

He was pacing the room now, and she had her face to herself. It  said several things, among them that the officer evidently did not  like this charge against his men.

"Does the shirra blame the sojers?" exclaimed this quick-witted  Egyptian. "Weel, that cows, for he has nane to blame but himsel'."

"What!" cried Halliwell, delighted. "It was the sheriff who told  tales? Answer me. You are counting a hundred this time."

Perhaps the gypsy had two reasons for withholding her answer. If  so, one of them was that as the sheriff had told nothing, she had  a story to make up. The other was that she wanted to strike a  bargain with the officer.

"If I tell you," she said eagerly, "will you set me free?"

"I may ask the sheriff to do so."

"But he mauna see me," the Egyptian said in distress. "There's  reasons, captain."

"Why, surely you have not been before him on other occasions,"  said Halliwell, surprised.

"No in the way you mean," muttered the gypsy, and for the moment  her eyes twinkled. But the light in them went out when she  remembered that the sheriff was near, and she looked desperately  at the window as if ready to fling herself from it. She had very  good reasons for not wishing to be seen by Riach, though fear that  he would put her in gaol was not one of them.

Halliwell thought it was the one cause of her woe, and great was  his desire to turn the tables on the sheriff.

"Tell me the truth," he said, "and I promise to befriend you."

"Weel, then," the gypsy said, hoping still to soften his heart,  and making up her story as she told it, "yestreen I met the  shirra, and he tolled me a' I hae telled the Thrums folk this  nicht."

"You can scarcely expect me to believe that. Where did you meet  him?"

"In Glen Quharity. He was riding on a horse."

"Well, I allow he was there yesterday, and on horseback. He was on  his way back to Tilliedrum from Lord Rintoul's place. But don't  tell me that he took a gypsy girl into his confidence."

"Ay, he did, without kenning. He was gieing his horse a drink when  I met him, and he let me tell him his fortune. He said he would  gaol me for an impostor if I didna tell him true, so I gaed about  it cautiously, and after a minute or twa I telled him he was  coming to Thrums the nicht to nab the rioters."

"You are trifling with me," interposed the indignant soldier. "You  promised to tell me not what you said to the sheriff, but how he  disclosed our movements to you."

"And that's just what I am telling you, only you hinna the  rumelgumption to see it. How do you think fortunes is telled?  First we get out o' the man, without his seeing what we're after,  a' about himsel", and syne we repeat it to him. That's what I did  wi' the shirra."

"You drew the whole thing out of him without his knowing?"

"'Deed I did, and he rode awa' saying I was a witch."

The soldier heard with the delight of a schoolboy.

"Now if the sheriff does not liberate you at my request," he said,  "I will never let him hear the end of this story. He was right;  you are a witch. You deceived the sheriff; yes, undoubtedly you  are a witch."

He looked at her with fun in his face, but the fun disappeared,  and a wondering admiration took its place.

"By Jove!" he said, "I don't wonder you bewitched the sheriff. I  must take care or you will bewitch the captain, too."

At this notion he smiled, but he also ceased looking at her.  Suddenly the Egyptian again began to cry.

"You're angry wi' me," she sobbed. "I wish I had never set een on  you."

"Why do you wish that?" Halliwell asked.

"Fine you ken," she answered, and again covered her face with her  hands.

He looked at her undecidedly.

"I am not angry with you," he said, gently. "You are an  extraordinary girl."

Had he really made a conquest of this beautiful creature? Her  words said so, but had he? The captain could not make up his mind.  He gnawed his moustache in doubt.

There was silence, save for the Egyptian's sobs. Halliwell's heart  was touched, and he drew nearer her,

"My poor girl--"

He stopped. Was she crying? Was she not laughing at him rather? He  became red.

The gypsy peeped at him between her fingers, and saw that he was  of two minds. She let her hands fall from her face, and  undoubtedly there were tears on her cheeks.

"If you're no angry wi' me," she said, sadly, "how will you no  look at me?"

"I am looking at you now."

He was very close to her, and staring into her wonderful eyes. I  am older than the Captain, and those eyes have dazzled me.

"Captain dear."

She put her hand in his. His chest rose. He knew she was seeking  to beguile him, but he could not take his eyes off hers. He was in  a worse plight than a woman listening to the first whisper of  love.

Now she was further from him, but the spell held. She reached the  door, without taking her eyes from his face. For several seconds  he had been as a man mesmerised.

Just in time he came to. It was when she turned from him to find  the handle of the door. She was turning it when his hand fell on  hers so suddenly that she screamed. He twisted her round.

"Sit down there," he said hoarsely, pointing to the chair upon  which he had flung his cloak. She dared not disobey. Then he leant  against the door, his back to her, for just then he wanted no one  to see his face. The gypsy sat very still and a little frightened.

Halliwell opened the door presently, and called to the soldier on  duty below.

"Davidson, see if you can find the sheriff. I want him. And  Davidson--"

The captain paused.

"Yes," he muttered, and the old soldier marvelled at his words,  "it is better. Davidson, lock this door on the outside."

Davidson did as he was ordered, and again the Egyptian was left  alone with Halliwell.

"Afraid of a woman!" she said, contemptuously, though her heart  sank when she heard the key turn in the lock.

"I admit it," he answered, calmly.

He walked up and down the room, and she sat silently Watching him.

"That story of yours about the sheriff was not true," he said at  last.

"I suspect it wasna," answered the Egyptian coolly, "Hae you been  thinking about it a' this time? Captains I could tell you what  you're thinking now. You're wishing it had been true, so that the  ane o' you couldna lauch at the other."

"Silence!" said the captain, and not another word would he speak  until he heard the sheriff coming up the stair. The Egyptian  trembled at his step, and rose in desperation.

"Why is the door locked?" cried the sheriff, shaking it.

"All right," answered Halliwell; "the key is on your side."

At that moment the Egyptian knocked the lamp off the table, and  the room was at once in darkness. The officer sprang at her, and,  catching her by the skirt, held on.

"Why are you in darkness?" asked the sheriff, as he entered.

"Shut the door," cried Halliwell. "Put your back to it."

"Don't tell me the woman has escaped?"

"I have her, I have her! She capsized the lamp, the little jade.  Shut the door."

Still keeping firm hold of her, as he thought, the captain relit  the lamp with his other hand. It showed an extraordinary scene.  The door was shut, and the sheriff was guarding it. Halliwell was  clutching the cloth of the bailie's seat. There was no Egyptian.

A moment passed before either man found his tongue.

"Open the door. After her!" cried Halliwell.

But the door would not open. The Egyptian had fled and locked it  behind her.

What the two men said to each other, it would not be fitting to  tell. When Davidson, who had been gossiping at the corner of the  town-house, released his captain and the sheriff, the gypsy had  been gone for some minutes.

"But she shan't escape us," Riach cried, and hastened out to  assist in the pursuit.

Halliwell was in such a furious temper that he called up Davidson  and admonished him for neglect of duty.

CHAPTER VIII.   - 3 A.M.--MONSTROUS AUDACITY OF THE WOMAN.

Not till the stroke of three did Gavin turn homeward, with the  legs of a ploughman, and eyes rebelling against over-work. Seeking  to comfort his dejected people, whose courage lay spilt on the  brae, he had been in as many houses as the policemen. The soldiers  marching through the wynds came frequently upon him, and found it  hard to believe that he was always the same one. They told  afterwards that Thrums was remarkable for the ferocity of its  women, and the number of its little ministers. The morning was  nipping cold, and the streets were deserted, for the people had  been ordered within doors. As he crossed the Roods, Gavin saw a  gleam of red-coats. In the back wynd he heard a bugle blown. A  stir in the Banker's close spoke of another seizure. At the top of  the school wynd two policeman, of whom one was Wearyworld, stopped  the minister with the flash of a lantern.

"We dauredna let you pass, sir," the Tilliedrum man said, "without  a good look at you. That's the orders."

"I hereby swear," said Wearyworld, authoritatively, "that this is  no the Egyptian. Signed, Peter Spens, policeman, called by the  vulgar, Wearyworld. Mr. Dishart, you can pass, unless you'll bide  a wee and gie us your crack."

"You have not found the gypsy, then?" Gavin asked.

"No," the other policeman said, "but we ken she's within cry o'  this very spot, and escape she canna."

"What mortal man can do," Wearyworld said, "we're doing: ay, and  mair, but she's auld wecht, and may find bilbie in queer places.  Mr. Dishart, my official opinion is that this Egyptian is  fearsomely like my snuff-spoon. I've kent me drap that spoon on  the fender, and be beat to find it in an hour. And yet, a' the  time I was sure it was there. This is a gey mysterious world, and  women's the uncanniest things in't. It's hardly mous to think how  uncanny they are."

"This one deserves to be punished," Gavin said, firmly; "she  incited the people to riot."

"She did," agreed Weary world, who was supping ravenously on  sociability; "ay, she even tried her tricks on me, so that them  that kens no better thinks she fooled me. But she's cracky. To gie  her her due, she's cracky, and as for her being a cuttie, you've  said yoursel, Mr. Dishart, that we're all desperately wicked, But  we're sair tried. Has it ever struck you that the trouts bites  best on the Sabbath? God's critturs tempting decent men."

"Come alang," cried the Tilliedrum man, impatiently.

"I'm coming, but I maun give Mr. Dishart permission to pass first.  Hae you heard, Mr. Dishart," Wearyworld whispered, "that the  Egyptian diddled baith the captain and the shirra? It's my  official opinion that she's no better than a roasted onion, the  which, if you grip it firm, jumps out o' sicht, leaving its coat  in your fingers. Mr. Dishart, you can pass."

The policeman turned down the school wynd, and Gavin, who had  already heard exaggerated accounts of the strange woman's escape  from the town-house, proceeded along the Tenements. He walked in  the black shadows of the houses, though across the way there was  the morning light.

In talking of the gypsy, the little minister had, as it were, put  on the black cap; but now, even though he shook his head angrily  with every thought of her, the scene in Windyghoul glimmered  before his eyes. Sometimes when he meant to frown he only sighed,  and then having sighed he shook himself. He was unpleasantly  conscious of his right hand, which had flung the divit. Ah, she  was shameless, and it would be a bright day for Thrums that saw  the last of her. He hoped the policemen would succeed in--. It was  the gladsomeness of innocence that he had seen dancing in the  moonlight. A mere woman could not be like that. How soft--. And  she had derided him; he, the Auld Licht minister of Thrums, had  been flouted before his people by a hussy. She was without  reverence, she knew no difference between an Auld Licht minister,  whose duty it was to speak and hers to listen, and herself. This  woman deserved to be--. And the look she cast behind her as she  danced and sang! It was sweet, so wistful; the presence of purity  had silenced him. Purity! Who had made him fling that divit? He  would think no more of her. Let it suffice that he knew what she  was. He would put her from his thoughts. Was it a ring on her  finger?

Fifty yards in front of him Gavin saw the road end in a wall of  soldiers. They were between him and the manse, and he was still in  darkness. No sound reached him, save the echo of his own feet. But  was it an echo? He stopped, and turned round sharply. Now he heard  nothing, he saw nothing. Yet was not that a human figure standing  motionless in the shadow behind?

He walked on, and again heard the sound. Again he looked behind,  but this time without stopping. The figure was following him. He  stopped. So did it. He turned back, but it did not move. It was  the Egyptian!

Gavin knew her, despite the lane of darkness, despite the long  cloak that now concealed even her feet, despite the hood over her  head. She was looking quite respectable, but he knew her.

He neither advanced to her nor retreated. Could the unhappy girl  not see that she was walking into the arms of the soldiers? But  doubtless she had been driven from all her hiding-places. For a  moment Gavin had it in his heart to warn her. But it was only for  a moment. The nest a sudden horror shot through him. She was  stealing toward him, so softly that he had not seen her start. The  woman had designs on him! Gavin turned from her. He walked so  quickly that judges would have said he ran.

The soldiers, I have said, stood in the dim light. Gavin had  almost reached them, when a little hand touched his arm.

"Stop," cried the sergeant, hearing some one approaching, and then  Gavin stepped out of the darkness with the gypsy on his arm.

"It is you, Mr. Dishart," said the sergeant, "and your lady?"

"I--." said Gavin.

His lady pinched his arm.

"Yes," she answered, in an elegant English voice that made Gavin  stare at her, "but, indeed, I am sorry I ventured into the streets  to-night. I thought I might be able to comfort some of these  unhappy people, captain, but I could do little, sadly little."

"It is no scene for a lady, ma'am, but your husband has--. Did you  speak, Mr. Dishart?"

"Yes, I must inf--"

"My dear," said the Egyptian, "I quite agree witfe you, so we need  not detain the captain."

"I'm only a sergeant, ma'am."

"Indeed!" said the Egyptian, raising her pretty eyebrows, "and how  long are you to remain in Thrums, sergeant?"

"Only for a few hours, Mrs. Dishart. If this gypsy lassie had not  given us so much trouble, we might have been gone by now."

"Ah, yes, I hope you will catch her, sergeant."

"Sergeant," said Gavin, firmly, "I must--"

"You must, indeed, dear," said the Egyptian, "for you are sadly  tired. Good-night, sergeant."

"Your servant, Mrs. Dishart. Your servant, sir."

"But--," cried Gavin.

"Come, love," said the Egyptian, and she walked the distracted  minister through the soldiers and up the manse road.

The soldiers left behind, Gavin flung her arm from him, and,  standing still, shook his fist in her face.

"You--you--woman!" he said.

This, I think, was the last time he called her a woman.

But she was clapping her hands merrily.

"It was beautiful!" she exclaimed.

"It was iniquitous!" he answered. "And I a minister!"

"You can't help that," said the Egyptian, who pitied all ministers  heartily.

"No," Gavin said, misunderstanding her, "I could not help it. No  blame attaches to me."

"I meant that you could not help being a minister, You could have  helped saving me, and I thank you so much."

"Do not dare to thank me. I forbid you to say that I saved you. I  did my best to hand you over to the authorities."

"Then why did you not hand me over?"

Gavin groaned.

"All you had to say," continued the merciless Egyptian, "was,  'This is the person you are in search of.' I did not have my hand  over your mouth. Why did you not say it?"

"Forbear!" said Gavin, woefully.

"It must have been," the gypsy said, "because you really wanted to  help me."

"Then it was against my better judgment," said Gavin.

"I am glad of that," said the gypsy. "Mr. Dishart, I do believe  you like me all the time."

"Can a man like a woman against his will?" Gavin blurted out.

"Of course he can," said the Egyptian, speaking as one who knew.  "That is the very nicest way to be liked."

Seeing how agitated Gavin was, remorse filled her, and she said in  a wheedling voice--

"It is all over, and no one will know."

Passion sat on the minister's brow, but he said nothing, for the  gypsy's face had changed with her voice, and the audacious woman  was become a child.

"I am very sorry," she said, as if he had caught her stealing jam.  The hood had fallen back, and she looked pleadingly at him. She  had the appearance of one who was entirely in his hands.

There was a torrent of words in Gavin, but only these trickled  forth--

"I don't understand you."

"You are not angry any more?" pleaded the Egyptian.

"Angry!" he cried, with the righteous rage of one who when his leg  is being sawn off is asked gently if it hurts him.

"I know you are,' she sighed, and the sigh meant that men are  strange.

"Have you no respect for law and order?" demanded Gavin.

"Not much," she answered, honestly.

He looked down the road to where the red-coats were still visible,  and his face became hard. She read his thoughts.

"No," she said, becoming a woman again, "it is not yet too late.  Why don't you shout to them?"

She was holding herself like a queen, but there was no stiffness  in her. They might have been a pair of lovers, and she the wronged  one. Again she looked timidly at him, and became beautiful in a  new way. Her eyes said that lie was very cruel, and she was only  keeping back her tears till he had gone. More dangerous than her  face was her manner, which gave Gavin the privilege of making her  unhappy; it permitted him to argue with her; it never implied that  though he raged at her he must stand afar off; it called him a  bully, but did not end the conversation.

Now (but perhaps I should not tell this) unless she is his wife a  man is shot with a thrill of exultation every time a pretty woman  allows him to upbraid her.

"I do not understand you," Gavin repeated weakly, and the gypsy  bent her head under this terrible charge.

"Only a few hours ago," he continued, "you were a gypsy girl in a  fantastic dress, barefooted--"

The Egyptian's bare foot at once peeped out mischievously from  beneath the cloak, then again retired into hiding.

"You spoke as broadly," complained the minister, somewhat taken  aback by this apparition, "as any woman in Thrums, and now you  fling a cloak over your shoulders, and immediately become a fine  lady. Who are you?"

"Perhaps," answered the Egyptian, "it is the cloak that has  bewitched me." She slipped out of it. "Ay, ay, ou losh?" she said,  as if surprised, "it was just the cloak that did it, for now I'm a  puir ignorant bit lassie again. My, certie, but claithes does make  a differ to a woman?"

This was sheer levity, and Gavin walked scornfully away from it.

"Yet, if you will not tell me who you are," he said, looking over  his shoulder, "tell me where you got the cloak."

"Na faags," replied the gypsy out of the cloak. "Really, Mr.  Dishart, you had better not ask," she added, replacing it over  her.

She followed him, meaning to gain the open by the fields to the  north of the manse.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "if you are not to  give me up."

"I am not a policeman," replied Gavin, but he would not take her  hand.

"Surely, we part friends, then?" said the Egyptian, sweetly.

"No," Gavin answered. "I hope never to see your face again."

"I cannot help," the Egyptian said, with dignity, "your not liking  my face." Then, with less dignity, she added, "There is a splotch  of mud on your own, little minister; it came off the divit you  flung at the captain."

With this parting shot she tripped past him, and Gavin would not  let his eyes follow her. It was not the mud on his face that  distressed him, nor even the hand that had flung the divit. It was  the word "little." Though, even Margaret was not aware of it,  Gavin's shortness had grieved him all his life. There had been  times when he tried to keep the secret from himself. In his  boyhood he had sought a remedy by getting his larger comrades to  stretch him. In the company of tall men he was always self-  conscious. In the pulpit he looked darkly at his congregation when  he asked them who, by taking thought, could add a cubit to his  stature. When standing on a hearthrug his heels were frequently on  the fender. In his bedroom he has stood on a footstool and  surveyed himself in the mirror. Once he fastened high heels to his  boots, being ashamed to ask Hendry Munn to do it for him; but this  dishonesty shamed him, and he tore them off. So the Egyptian had  put a needle into his pride, and he walked to the manse gloomily.

Margaret was at her window, looking for him, and he saw her though  she did not see him. He was stepping into the middle of the road  to wave his hand to her, when some sudden weakness made him look  towards the fields instead. The Egyptian saw him and nodded thanks  for his interest in her, but he scowled and pretended to be  studying the sky. Next moment he saw her running back to him.

"There are soldiers at the top of the field," she cried. "I cannot  escape that way."

"There is no other way," Gavin answered.

"Will you not help me again?" she entreated.

She should not have said "again." Gavin shook his head, but pulled  her closer to the manse dyke, for his mother was still in sight.

"Why do you do that?" the girl asked, quickly, looking round to  see if she were pursued. "Oh, I see," she said, as her eyes fell  on the figure at the window.

"It is my mother," Gavin said, though he need not have explained,  unless he wanted the gypsy to know that he was a bachelor.

"Only your mother?"

"Only! Let me tell you she may suffer more than you for your  behaviour to-night!"

"How can she?"

"If you are caught, will it not be discovered that I helped you to  escape?"

"But you said you did not."

"Yes, I helped you," Gavin admitted. "My God! what would my  congregation say if they knew I had let you pass yourself off as--  as my wife?"

He struck his brow, and the Egyptian had the propriety to blush.

"It is not the punishment from men I am afraid of," Gavin said,  bitterly, "but from my conscience. No, that is not true. I do fear  exposure, but for my mother's sake. Look at her; she is happy,  because she thinks me good and true; she has had such trials as  you cannot know of, and now, when at last I seemed able to do  something for her, you destroy her happiness. You have her life in  your hands."

The Egyptian turned her back upon him, and one of her feet tapped  angrily on the dry ground. Then, child of impulse as she always  was, she flashed an indignant glance at him, and walked quickly  down the road.

"Where are you going?" he cried.

"To give myself up. You need not be alarmed; I will clear you."

There was not a shake in her voice, and she spoke without looking  back.

"Stop!" Gavin called, but she would not, until his hand touched  her shoulder.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Why--" whispered Gavin, giddily, "why--why do you not hide in the  manse garden?--No one will look for you there."

There were genuine tears in the gypsy's eyes now.

"You are a good man," she said; "I like you."

"Don't say that," Gavin cried in horror. "There is a summer-seat  in the garden."

Then he hurried from her, and without looking to see if she took  his advice, hastened to the manse. Once inside, he snibbed the  door.

CHAPTER IX.   - THE WOMAN CONSIDERED IN ABSENCE--ADVENTURES OF A MILITARY CLOAK.

About six o'clock Margaret sat up suddenly in bed, with the  conviction that she had slept in. To her this was to ravel the  day: a dire thing. The last time it happened Gavin, softened by  her distress, had condensed morning worship into a sentence that  she might make up on the clock.

Her part on waking was merely to ring her bell, and so rouse Jean,  for Margaret had given Gavin a promise to breakfast in bed, and  remain there till her fire was lit. Accustomed all her life,  however, to early rising, her feet were usually on the floor  before she remembered her vow, and then it was but a step to the  window to survey the morning. To Margaret, who seldom went out,  the weather was not of great moment, while it mattered much to  Gavin, yet she always thought of it the first thing, and he not at  all until he had to decide whether his companion should be an  umbrella or a staff.

On this morning Margaret only noticed that there had been rain  since Gavin came in. Forgetting that the water obscuring the  outlook was on the other side of the panes, she tried to brush it  away with her fist. It was of the soldiers she was thinking. They  might have been awaiting her appearance at the window as their  signal to depart, for hardly had she raised the blind when they  began their march out of Thrums. From the manse she could not see  them, but she heard them, and she saw some people at the Tenements  run to their houses at sound of the drum. Other persons, less  timid, followed the enemy with execrations halfway to Tilliedrum.  Margaret, the only person, as it happened, then awake in the  manse, stood listening for some time. In the summer-seat of the  garden, however, there was another listener protected from her  sight by thin spars.

Despite the lateness of the hour Margaret was too soft-hearted to  rouse Jean, who had lain down in her clothes, trembling for her  father. She went instead into Gavin's room to look admiringly at  him as he slept. Often Gavin woke to find that his mother had  slipped in to save him the enormous trouble of opening a drawer  for a clean collar, or of pouring the water into the basin with  his own hand. Sometimes he caught her in the act of putting thick  socks in the place of thin ones, and, it must be admitted that her  passion for keeping his belongings in boxes, and the boxes in  secret places, and the secret places at the back of drawers,  occasionally led to their being lost when wanted. "They are safe,  at any rate, for I put them away some gait," was then Magaret's  comfort, but less soothing to Gavin. Yet if he upbraided her in  his hurry, it was to repent bitterly his temper the next instant,  and to feel its effects more than she, temper being a weapon that  we hold by the blade. When he awoke and saw her in his room he  would pretend, unless he felt called upon to rage at her for self-  neglect, to be still asleep, and then be filled with tenderness  for her. A great writer has spoken sadly of the shock it would be  to a mother to know her boy as he really is, but I think she often  knows him better than he is known to cynical friends. We should be  slower to think that the man at his worst is the real man, and  certain that the better we are ourselves the less likely is he to  be at his worst in our company. Every time he talks away his own  character before us he is signifying contempt for ours.

On this morning Margaret only opened Gavin's door to stand and  look, for she was fearful of awakening him after his heavy night.  Even before she saw that he still slept she noticed with surprise  that, for the first time since he came to Thrums, he had put on  his shutters. She concluded that he had done this lest the light  should rouse him. He was not sleeping pleasantly, for now he put  his open hand before his face, as if to guard himself, and again  he frowned and seemed to draw back from something. He pointed his  finger sternly to the north, ordering the weavers, his mother  thought, to return to their homes, and then he muttered to himself  so that she heard the words, "And if thy right hand offend thee  cut it off, and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee  that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body  should be cast into hell." Then suddenly he bent forward, his eyes  open and fixed on the window. Thus he sat, for the space of half a  minute, like one listening with painful intentness. When he lay  back Margaret slipped away. She knew he was living the night over  again, but not of the divit his right hand had cast, nor of the  woman in the garden.

Gavin was roused presently by the sound of voices from Margaret's  room, where Jean, who had now gathered much news, was giving it to  her mistress. Jean's cheerfulness would have told him that her  father was safe had he not wakened to thoughts of the Egyptian. I  suppose he was at the window in an instant, unsnibbing the  shutters and looking out as cautiously as a burglar might have  looked in. The Egyptian was gone from the summer-seat. He drew a  great breath.

But his troubles were not over. He had just lifted his ewer of  water when these words from the kitchen capsized it:--

"Ay, an Egyptian. That's what the auld folk call a gypsy. Weel,  Mrs. Dishart, she led police and sojers sic a dance through Thrums  as would baffle description, though I kent the fits and fors o't  as I dinna. Ay, but they gripped her in the end, and the queer  thing is--"

Gavin listened to no more. He suddenly sat down. The queer thing,  of course, was that she had been caught in his garden. Yes, and  doubtless queerer things about this hussy and her "husband" were  being bawled from door to door. To the girl's probable sufferings  he gave no heed. What kind of man had he been a few hours ago to  yield to the machinations of a woman who was so obviously the  devil? Now he saw his folly in the face.

The tray in Jean's hands clattered against the dresser, and Gavin  sprang from his chair. He thought it was his elders at the front  door.

In the parlour he found Margaret sorrowing for those whose mates  had been torn from them, and Jean with a face flushed by talk. On  ordinary occasions the majesty of the minister still cowed Jean,  so that she could only gaze at him without shaking when in church,  and then because she wore a veil. In the manse he was for taking a  glance at sideways and then going away comforted, as a respectable  woman may once or twice in a day look at her brooch in the  pasteboard box as a means of helping her with her work. But with  such a to-do in Thrums, and she the possessor of exclusive  information, Jean's reverence for Gavin only took her to-day as  far as the door, where she lingered half in the parlour and half  in the lobby, her eyes turned politely from the minister, but her  ears his entirely.

"I thought I heard Jean telling you about the capture of the--of  an Egyptian woman," Gavin said to his mother, nervously.

"Did you cry to me?" Jean asked, turning round longingly. "But  maybe the mistress will tell you about the Egyptian hersel."

"Has she been taken to Tilliedrum?" Gavin asked in a hollow voice.

"Sup up your porridge, Gavin," Margaret said. "I'll have no  speaking about this terrible night till you've eaten something."

"I have no appetite," the minister replied, pushing his plate from  him. "Jean, answer me."

"'Deed, then," said Jean willingly, "they hinna ta'en her to  Tilliedrum."

"For what reason?" asked Gavin, his dread increasing.

"For the reason that they couldna catch her," Jean answered. "She  spirited hersel awa', the magerful crittur."

"What! But I heard you say----"

"Ay, they had her aince, but they couldna keep her. It's like a  witch story. They had her safe in the townhouse, and baith shirra  and captain guarding her, and syne in a clink she wasna there. A'  nicht they looked for her, but she hadna left so muckle as a foot-  print ahint her, and in the tail of the day they had to up wi'  their tap in their lap and march awa without her."

Gavin's appetite returned.

"Has she been seen since the soldiers went away?" he asked, laying  down his spoon with a new fear. "Where is she now?"

"No human eye has seen her," Jean answered impressively. "Whaur is  she now? Whaur does the flies vanish to in winter? We ken they're  some gait, but whaur?"

"But what are the people saying about her?"

"Daft things," said Jean. "Old Charles Yuill gangs the length o'  hinting that she's dead and buried."

"She could not have buried herself, Jean," Margaret said, mildly.

"I dinna ken. Charles says she's even capable o' that."

Then Jean retired reluctantly (but leaving the door ajar) and  Gavin fell to on his porridge. He was now so cheerful that  Margaret wondered.

"If half the stories about this gypsy be true," she said, "she  must be more than a mere woman."

"Less, you mean, mother," Gavin said, with conviction. "She is a  woman, and a sinful one."

"Did you see her, Gavin?"

"I saw her. Mother, she flouted me!"

"The daring tawpie!" exclaimed Margaret.

"She is all that," said the minister.

"Was she dressed just like an ordinary gypsy body? But you don't  notice clothes much, Gavin."

"I noticed hers," Gavin said, slowly, "she was in a green and red,  I think, and barefooted."

"Ay," shouted Jean from the kitchen, startling both of them; "but  she had a lang grey-like cloak too. She was seen jouking up closes  in't."

Gavin rose, considerably annoyed, and shut the parlour door.

"Was she as bonny as folks say?" asked Margaret. "Jean says they  speak of her beauty as unearthly."

"Beauty of her kind," Gavin explained learnedly, "is neither  earthly nor heavenly." He was seeing things as they are very  clearly now. "What," he said, "is mere physical beauty? Pooh!"

"And yet," said Margaret, "the soul surely does speak through the  face to some extent."

"Do you really think so, mother?" Gavin asked, a little uneasily.

"I have always noticed it," Margaret said, and then her son  sighed.

"But I would let no face influence me a jot," he said, recovering.

"Ah, Gavin, I'm thinking I'm the reason you pay so little regard  to women's faces. It's no natural."

"You've spoilt me, you see, mother, for ever caring for another  woman. I would compare her to you, and then where would she be?"

"Sometime," Margaret said, "you'll think differently."

"Never," answered Gavin, with a violence that ended the  conversation.

Soon afterwards he set off for the town, and in passing down the  garden walk cast a guilty glance at the summer-seat. Something  black was lying in one corner of it. He stopped irresolutely, for  his mother was nodding to him from her window. Then he disappeared  into the little arbour. What had caught his eye was a Bible. On  the previous day, as he now remembered, he had been called away  while studying in the garden, and had left his Bible on the  summer-seat, a pencil between its pages. Not often probably had  the Egyptian passed a night in such company.

But what was this? Gavin had not to ask himself the question. The  gypsy's cloak was lying neatly folded at the other end of the  seat. Why had the woman not taken it with her? Hardly had he put  this question when another stood in front of it. What was to be  done with the cloak? He dared not leave it there for Jean to  discover. He could not take it into the manse in daylight. Beneath  the seat was a tool-chest without a lid, and into this he crammed  the cloak. Then, having turned the box face downwards, he went  about his duties. But many a time during the day he shivered to  the marrow, reflecting suddenly that at this very moment Jean  might be carrying the accursed thing (at arms' length, like a dog  in disgrace) to his mother.

Now let those who think that Gavin has not yet paid toll for  taking the road with the Egyptian, follow the adventures of the  cloak. Shortly after gloaming fell that night Jean encountered her  master in the lobby of the manse. He was carrying something, and  when he saw her he slipped it behind his back. Had he passed her  openly she would have suspected nothing, but this made her look at  him.

"Why do you stare so, Jean?" Gavin asked, conscience-stricken, and  he stood with his back to the wall until she had retired in  bewilderment.

"I have noticed her watching me sharply all day," he said to  himself, though it was only he who had been watching her.

Gavin carried the cloak to his bed-room, thinking to lock it away  in his chest, but it looked so wicked lying there that he seemed  to see it after the lid was shut.

The garret was the best place for it. He took it out of the chest  and was opening his door gently, when there was Jean again. She  had been employed very innocently in his mother's room, but he  said tartly--

"Jean, I really cannot have this," which sent Jean to the kitchen  with her apron at her eyes.

Gavin stowed the cloak beneath the garret bed, and an hour  afterwards was engaged on his sermon, when he distinctly heard  some one in the garret. He ran up the ladder with a terrible brow  for Jean, but it was not Jean; it was Margaret.

"Mother," he said in alarm, "what are you doing here?"

"I am only tidying up the garret, Gavin."

"Yes, but--it is too cold for you. Did Jean--did Jean ask you to  come up here?"

"Jean? She knows her place better."

Gavin took Margaret down to the parlour, but his confidence in the  garret had gone. He stole up the ladder again, dragged the cloak  from its lurking place, and took it into the garden. He very  nearly met Jean in the lobby again, but hearing him coming she  fled precipitately, which he thought very suspicious.

In the garden he dug a hole, and there buried the cloak, but even  now he was not done with it. He was wakened early by a noise of  scraping in the garden, and his first thought was "Jean!" But  peering from the window, he saw that the resurrectionist was a dog  which already had its teeth in the cloak.

That forenoon Gavin left the manse unostentatiously carrying a  brown-paper parcel. He proceeded to the hill, and having dropped  the parcel there, retired hurriedly. On his way home,  nevertheless, he was overtaken by D. Fittis, who had been cutting  down whins. Fittis had seen the parcel fall, and running after  Gavin, returned it to him. Gavin thanked D. Fittis, and then sat  down gloomily on the cemetery dyke. Half an hour afterwards he  flung the parcel into a Tillyloss garden.

In the evening Margaret had news for him, got from Jean.

"Do you remember, Gavin, that the Egyptian every one is still  speaking of, wore a long cloak? Well, would you believe it, the  cloak was Captain Halliwell's, and she took it from the town-house  when she escaped. She is supposed to have worn it inside out. He  did not discover that it was gone until he was leaving Thrums."

"Mother, is this possible?" Gavin said.

"The policeman, Wearyworld, has told it. He was ordered, it seems,  to look for the cloak quietly, and to take any one into custody in  whose possession it was found."

"Has it been found?"

"No."

The minister walked out of the parlour, for he could not trust his  face. What was to be done now? The cloak was lying in mason  Baxter's garden, and Baxter was therefore, in all probability,  within four-and-twenty hours of the Tilliedrum gaol.

"Does Mr. Dishart ever wear a cap at nichts?" Femie Wilkie asked  Sam'l Fairweather three hours later.

"Na, na, he has ower muckle respect for his lum hat," answered  Sam'l; "and richtly, for it's the crowning stone o' the edifice."

"Then it couldna hae been him I met at the back o' Tillyloss the  now," said Femie, "though like him it was. He joukit back when he  saw me."

While Femie was telling her story in the Tenements, mason Baxter,  standing at the window which looked into his garden, was shouting,  "Wha's that in my yard?" There was no answer, and Baxter closed  his window, under the impression that he had been speaking to a  cat. The man in the cap then emerged from the corner where he had  been crouching, and stealthily felt for something among the  cabbages and pea sticks. It was no longer there, however, and by-  and-by he retired empty-handed.

"The Egyptian's cloak has been found," Margaret was able to tell  Gavin next day. "Mason Baxter found it yesterday afternoon."

"In his garden?" Gavin asked hurriedly.

"No; in the quarry, he says, but according to Jean he is known not  to have been at the quarry to-day. Some seem to think that the  gypsy gave him the cloak for helping her to escape, and that he  has delivered it up lest he should get into difficulties."

"Whom has he given it to, mother?" Gavin asked.

"To the policeman."

"And has Wearyworld sent it back to Halliwell?"

"Yes. He told Jean he sent it off at once, with the information  that the masons had found it in the quarry."

The next day was Sabbath, when a new trial, now to be told,  awaited Gavin in the pulpit; but it had nothing to do with the  cloak, of which I may here record the end. Wearyworld had not  forwarded it to its owner; Meggy, his wife, took care of that. It  made its reappearance in Thrums, several months after the riot, as  two pairs of Sabbath breeks for her sons, James and Andrew.

CHAPTER X.   - FIRST SERMON AGAINST WOMEN.

On the afternoon of the following Sabbath, as I have said,  something strange happened in the Auld Licht pulpit. The  congregation, despite their troubles, turned it over and peered at  it for days, but had they seen into the inside of it they would  have weaved few webs until the session had sat on the minister.  The affair baffled me at the time, and for the Egyptian's sake I  would avoid mentioning it now, were it not one of Gavin's  milestones. It includes the first of his memorable sermons against  Woman.

I was not in the Auld Licht church that day, but I heard of the  sermon before night, and this, I think, is as good an opportunity  as another for showing how the gossip about Gavin reached me up  here in the Glen school-house. Since Margaret and her son came to  the manse I had kept the vow made to myself and avoided Thrums.  Only once had I ventured to the kirk, and then, instead of taking  my old seat, the fourth from the pulpit, I sat down near the  plate, where I could look at Margaret without her seeing me. To  spare her that agony I even stole away as the last word of the  benediction was pronounced, and my haste scandalised many, for  with Auld Lichts it is not customary to retire quickly from the  church after the manner of the godless U. P.'s (and the Free Kirk  is little better), who have their hats in their hand when they  rise for the benediction, so that they may at once pour out like a  burst dam. We resume our seats, look straight before us, clear our  throats and stretch out our hands for our womenfolk to put our  hats into them. In time we do get out, but I am never sure how.

One may gossip in a glen on Sabbaths, though not in a town,  without losing his character, and I used to await the return of my  neighbour, the farmer of Waster Lunny, and of Silva Birse, the  Glen Quharity post, at the end of the school-house path. Waster  Lunny was a man whose care in his leisure hours was to keep from  his wife his great pride in her. His horse, Catlaw, on the other  hand, he told outright what he thought of it, praising it to its  face and blackguarding it as it deserved, and I have seen him when  completely baffled by the brute, sit down before it on a stone and  thus harangue: "You think you're clever, Catlaw, my lass, but  you're mista'en. You're a thrawn limmer, that's what you are. You  think you have blood in you. You hae blood! Gae away, and dinna  blether. I tell you what, Catlaw, I met a man yestreen that kent  your mither, and he says she was a feikie fushionless besom. What  do you say to that?"

As for the post, I will say no more of him than that his bitter  topic was the unreasonableness of humanity, which treated him  graciously when he had a letter for it, but scowled at him when he  had none. "aye implying that I hae a letter, but keep it back."

On the Sabbath evening after the riot, I stood at the usual place  awaiting my friends, and saw before they reached me that they had  something untoward to tell. The farmer, his wife and three  children, holding each other's hands, stretched across the road.  Birse was a little behind, but a conversation was being kept up by  shouting. All were walking the Sabbath pace, and the family having  started half a minute in advance, the post had not yet made up on  them.

"It's sitting to snaw," Waster Lunny said, drawing near, and just  as I was to reply, "It is so," Silva slipped in the words before  me.

"You wasna at the kirk," was Elspeth's salutation. I had been at  the Glen church, but did not contradict her, for it is  Established, and so neither here nor there. I was anxious, too, to  know what their long faces meant, and so asked at once--

"Was Mr. Dishart on the riot?"

"Forenoon, ay; afternoon, no," replied Waster Lunny, walking round  his wife to get nearer me. "Dominie, a queery thing happened in  the kirk this day, sic as--"

"Waster Lunny," interrupted Elspeth sharply; "have you on your  Sabbath shoon or have you no on your Sabbath shoon?"

"Guid care you took I should hae the dagont oncanny things on,"  retorted the farmer.

"Keep out o' the gutter, then," said Elspeth, "on the Lord's day."

"Him," said her man, "that is forced by a foolish woman to wear  genteel 'lastic-sided boots canna forget them till he takes them  aff. Whaur's the extra reverence in wearing shoon twa sizes ower  sma?"

"It mayna be mair reverent," suggested Birse, to whom Elspeth's  kitchen was a pleasant place, "but it's grand, and you canna  expect to be baith grand and comfortable."

I reminded them that they were speaking of Mr. Dishart.

"We was saying," began the post briskly, "that--"

"It was me that was saying it," said Waster Lunny. "So, dominie--"

"Haud your gabs, baith o' you," interrupted Elspeth, "You've been  roaring the story to ane another till you're hoarse."

"In the forenoon," Waster Lunny went on determinedly, "Mr. Dishart  preached on the riot, and fine he was. Oh, dominie, you should hae  heard him ladling it on to Lang Tammas, no by name but in sic a  way that there was no mistaking wha he was preaching at, Sal! oh  losh! Tammas got it strong."

"But he's dull in the uptake," broke in the post, "by what I  expected. I spoke to him after the sermon, and I says, just to see  if he was properly humbled, 'Ay, Tammas,' I says, 'them that  discourse was preached against, winna think themselves seven feet  men for a while again.' 'Ay, Birse,' he answers, 'and glad I am to  hear you admit it, for he had you in his eye.' I was fair  scunnered at Tammas the day."

"Mr. Dishart was preaching at the whole clanjamfray o' you," said  Elspeth.

"Maybe he was," said her husband, leering; "but you needna cast it  at us, for, my certie, if the men got it frae him in the forenoon,  the women got it in the afternoon."

"He redd them up most michty," said the post. "Thae was his very  words or something like them. 'Adam,' says he, 'was an erring man,  but aside Eve he was respectable.'"

"Ay, but it wasna a' women he meant," Elspeth explained, "for when  he said that, he pointed his finger direct at T'nowhead's lassie,  and I hope it'll do her good."

"But I wonder," I said, "that Mr. Dishart chose such a subject to-  day. I thought he would be on the riot at both services."

"You'll wonder mair," said Elspeth, "when you hear what happened  afore he began the afternoon sermon. But I canna get in a word wi'  that man o' mine."

"We've been speaking about it," said Birse, "ever since we left  the kirk door. Tod, we've been sawing it like seed a' alang the  glen."

"And we meant to tell you about it at once," said Waster Lunny;  "but there's aye so muckle to say about a minister. Dagont, to hae  ane keeps a body out o' langour. Ay, but this breaks the drum.  Dominie, either Mr. Dishart wasna weel, or he was in the devil's  grip."

This startled me, for the farmer was looking serious.

"He was weel eneuch," said Birse, "for a heap o' fowk speired at  Jean if he had ta'en his porridge as usual, and she admitted he  had. But the lassie was skeered hersel', and said it was a mercy  Mrs. Dishart wasna in the kirk."

"Why was she not there?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, he winna let her out in sic weather."

"I wish you would tell me what happened," I said to Elspeth.

"So I will," she answered, "if Waster Lunny would haud his wheesht  for a minute. You see the afternoon diet began in the ordinary  way, and a' was richt until we came to the sermon. 'You will find  my text,' he says, in his piercing voice, 'in the eighth chapter  of Ezra.'"

"And at thae words," said Waster Lunny, "my heart gae a loup, for  Ezra is an unca ill book to find; ay, and so is Ruth."

"I kent the books o' the Bible by heart," said Elspeth,  scornfully, "when I was a sax year auld."

"So did I," said Waster Lunny, "and I ken them yet, except when  I'm hurried. When Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra he a sort o' keeked  round the kirk to find out if he had puzzled onybody, and so there  was a kind o' a competition among the congregation wha would lay  hand on it first. That was what doited me. Ay, there was Ruth when  she wasna wanted, but Ezra, dagont, it looked as if Ezra had  jumped clean out o' the Bible."

"You wasna the only distressed crittur," said his wife. "I was  ashamed to see Eppie McLaren looking up the order o' the books at  the beginning o' the Bible."

"Tibbie Birse was even mair brazen," said the post, "for the sly  cuttie opened at Kings and pretended it was Ezra."

"None o' thae things would I do," said Waster Lunny," and sal, I  dauredna, for Davit Lunan was glowering over my shuther. Ay, you  may scrowl at me, Elspeth Proctor, but as far back as I can mind,  Ezra has done me. Mony a time afore I start for the kirk I take my  Bible to a quiet place and look Ezra up. In the very pew I says  canny to mysel', 'Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther, Job,' the which should  be a help, but the moment the minister gi'es out that awfu' book,  away goes Ezra like the Egyptian."

"And you after her," said Elspeth, "like the weavers that wouldna  fecht. You make a windmill of your Bible."

"Oh, I winna admit I'm beat. Never mind there's queer things in  the world forby Ezra. How is cripples aye so puffed up mair than  other folk? How does flour-bread aye fall on the buttered side?"

"I will mind," Elspeth said, "for I was terrified the minister  would admonish you frae the pulpit."

"He couldna hae done that, for was he no baffled to find Ezra  himsel'?"

"Him no find Ezra!" cried Elspeth. "I hae telled you a dozen times  he found it as easy as you could yoke a horse."

"The thing can be explained in no other way," said her husband,  doggedly, "if he was weel and in sound mind."

"Maybe the dominie can clear it up," suggested the post, "him  being a scholar."

"Then tell me what happened," I asked.

"Godsake, hae we no telled you?" Birse said. "I thocht we had."

"It was a terrible scene," said Elspeth, giving her husband a  shove. "As I said, Mr. Dishart gave out Ezra eighth. Weel, I  turned it up in a jiffy, and syne looked cautiously to see how  Eppie McLaren was getting on. Just at that minute I heard a groan  frae the pulpit. It didna stop short o' a groan. Ay, you may be  sure I looked quick at the minister, and there I saw a sicht that  would hae made the grandest gape. His face was as white as a  baker's, and he had a sort of fallen against the back o' the  pulpit, staring demented-like at his open Bible."

"And I saw him," said Birse, "put up his hand atween him and the  Book, as if he thocht it was to jump at him."

"Twice," said Elspeth, "he tried to speak, and twice he let the  words fall."

"That," says Waster Lunny, "the whole congregation admits, but I  didna see it mysel', for a' this time you may picture me hunting  savage-like for Ezra. I thocht the minister was waiting till I  found it."

"Hendry Munn," said Birse, "stood upon one leg, wondering whether  he should run to the session-house for a glass of water."

"But by that time," said Elspeth, "the fit had left Mr. Dishart,  or rather it had ta'en a new turn. He grew red, and it's gospel  that he stamped his foot."

"He had the face of one using bad words," said the post, "He didna  swear, of course, but that was the face he had on."

"I missed it," said Waster Lunny, "for I was in full cry after  Ezra, with the sweat running down my face."

"But the most astounding thing has yet to be telled," went on  Elspeth. "The minister shook himsel' like one wakening frae a  nasty dream, and he cries in a voice of thunder, just as if he was  shaking his fist at somebody--"

"He cries," Birse interposed, cleverly, "he cries, 'You will find  the text in Genesis, chapter three, verse six.'"

"Yes," said Elspeth, "first he gave out one text, and then he gave  out another, being the most amazing thing to my mind that ever  happened in the town of Thrums. What will our children's children  think o't? I wouldna hae missed it for a pound note."

"Nor me," said Waster Lunny, "though I only got the tail o't.  Dominie, no sooner had he said Genesis third and sixth, than I  laid my finger on Ezra. Was it no provoking? Onybody can turn up  Genesis, but it needs an able-bodied man to find Ezra."

"He preached on the Fall," Elspeth said, "for an hour and twenty-  five minutes, but powerful though he was I would rather he had  telled us what made him gie the go-by to Ezra."

"All I can say," said Waster Lunny, "is that I never heard him  mair awe-inspiring. Whaur has he got sic a knowledge of women? He  riddled them, he fair riddled them, till I was ashamed o' being  married."

"It's easy kent whaur he got his knowledge of women," Birse  explained, "it's a' in the original Hebrew. You can howk ony  mortal thing out o' the original Hebrew, the which all ministers  hae at their finger ends. What else makes them ken to jump a verse  now and then when giving out a psalm?"

"It wasna women like me he denounced," Elspeth insisted, "but  young lassies that leads men astray wi' their abominable wheedling  ways."

"Tod," said her husband, "if they try their hands on Mr. Dishart  they'll meet their match."

"They will," chuckled the post. "The Hebrew's a grand thing,  though teuch, I'm telled, michty teuch."

"His sublimest burst," Waster Lunny came back to tell me, "was  about the beauty o' the soul being everything and the beauty o'  the face no worth a snuff. What a scorn he has for bonny faces and  toom souls! I dinna deny but what a bonny face fell takes me, but  Mr. Dishart wouldna gie a blade o' grass for't. Ay, and I used to  think that in their foolishness about women there was dagont  little differ atween the unlearned and the highly edicated."

The gossip about Gavin brought hitherto to the schoolhouse had  been as bread to me, but this I did not like. For a minister to  behave thus was as unsettling to us as a change of Government to  Londoners, and I decided to give my scholars a holiday on the  morrow and tramp into the town for fuller news. But all through  the night it snowed, and next day, and then intermittingly for  many days, and every fall took the school miles farther away from  Thrums. Birse and the crows had now the glen road to themselves,  and even Birse had twice or thrice to bed with me. At these times  had he not been so interested in describing his progress through  the snow, maintaining that the crying want of our glen road was  palings for postmen to kick their feet against, he must have  wondered why I always turned the talk to the Auld Licht minister.

"Ony explanation o' his sudden change o' texts?' Birse said,  repeating my question. "Tod, and there is and to spare, for I hear  tell there's saxteen explanations in the Tenements alone. As  Tammas Haggart says, that's a blessing, for if there had just been  twa explanations the kirk micht hae split on them."

"Ay," he said at another time, "twa or three even dared to  question the minister, but I'm thinking they made nothing o't. The  majority agrees that he was just inspired to change his text. But  Lang Tammas is dour. Tammas telled the session a queer thing. He  says that after the diet o' worship on that eventful afternoon Mr.  Dishart carried the Bible out o' the pulpit instead o' leaving  that duty as usual to the kirk-officer. Weel, Tammas, being  precentor, has a richt, as you ken, to leave the kirk by the  session-house door, just like the minister himsel'. He did so that  afternoon, and what, think you, did he see? He saw Mr. Dishart  tearing a page out o' the Bible, and flinging it savagely into the  session-house fire. You dinna credit it? Weel, it's staggering,  but there's Hendry Munn's evidence too. Hendry took his first  chance o' looking up Ezra in the minister's Bible, and, behold,  the page wi' the eighth chapter was gone. Them that thinks Tammas  wasna blind wi' excitement hauds it had been Ezra eighth that gaed  into the fire. Onyway, there's no doubt about the page's being  missing, for whatever excitement Tammas was in, Hendry was as cool  as ever."

A week later Birse told me that the congregation had decided to  regard the incident as adding lustre to their kirk. This was  largely, I fear, because it could then be used to belittle the  Established minister. That fervent Auld Licht, Snecky Hobart,  feeling that Gavin's action was unsound, had gone on the following  Sabbath to the parish kirk and sat under Mr. Duthie. But Mr.  Duthie was a close reader, so that Snecky flung himself about in  his pew in misery. The minister concluded his sermon with these  words: "But on this subject I will say no more at present."

"Because you canna," Snecky roared, and strutted out of the  church. Comparing the two scenes, it is obvious that the Auld  Lichts had won a victory. After preaching impromptu for an hour  and twenty-five minutes, it could never be said of Gavin that he  needed to read. He became more popular than ever. Yet the change  of texts was not forgotten. If in the future any other indictments  were brought against him, it would certainly be pinned to them.

I marvelled long over Gavin's jump from Ezra to Genesis, and at  this his first philippic against Woman, but I have known the cause  for many a year. The Bible was the one that had lain on the  summer-seat while the Egyptian hid there. It was the great pulpit  Bible which remains in the church as a rule, but Gavin had taken  it home the previous day to make some of its loose pages secure  with paste. He had studied from it on the day preceding the riot,  but had used a small Bible during the rest of the week. When he  turned in the pulpit to Ezra, where he had left the large Bible  open in the summer-seat, he found this scrawled across chapter  eight:--

"I will never tell who flung the clod at Captain Halliwell. But  why did you fling it? I will never tell that you allowed me to be  called Mrs. Dishart before witnesses. But is not this a Scotch  marriage? Signed, Babbie the Egyptian."

CHAPTER XI.   - TELLS IN A WHISPER OF MAN'S FALL DURING THE CURLING SEASON.

No snow could be seen in Thrums by the beginning of the year,  though clods of it lay in Waster Lunny's fields, where his hens  wandered all day as if looking for something they had dropped. A  black frost had set in, and one walking on the glen road could  imagine that through the cracks in it he saw a loch glistening.  From my door I could hear the roar of curling stones at Rashie-  bog, which is almost four miles nearer Thrums. On the day I am  recalling, I see that I only made one entry in my diary, "At last  bought Waster Lunny's bantams." Well do I remember the  transaction, and no wonder, for I had all but bought the bantams  every day for a six months.

About noon the doctor's dog-cart was observed by all the Tenements  standing at the Auld Licht manse. The various surmises were wrong.  Margaret had not been suddenly taken ill; Jean had not swallowed a  darning-needle; the minister had not walked out at his study  window in a moment of sublime thought. Gavin stepped into the dog-  cart, which at once drove off in the direction of Rashie-bog, but  equally in error were those who said that the doctor was making a  curler of him.

There was, however, ground for gossip; for Thrums folk seldom  called in a doctor until it was too late to cure them, and McQueen  was not the man to pay social visits. Of his skill we knew  fearsome stories, as that, by looking at Archie Allardyce, who had  come to broken bones on a ladder, he discovered which rung Archie  fell from. When he entered a stuffy room he would poke his staff  through the window to let in fresh air, and then fling down a  shilling to pay for the breakage. He was deaf in the right ear,  and therefore usually took the left side of prosy people, thus, as  he explained, making a blessing of an affliction. "A pity I don't  hear better?" I have heard him say. "Not at all. If my misfortune,  as you call it, were to be removed, you can't conceive how I  should miss my deaf ear." He was a fine fellow, though brusque,  and I never saw him without his pipe until two days before we  buried him, which was five-and-twenty years ago come Martinmas.

"We're all quite weel," Jean said apprehensively as she answered  his knock on the manse door, and she tried to be pleasant, too,  for well she knew that, if a doctor willed it, she could have  fever in five minutes.

"Ay, Jean, I'll soon alter that," he replied ferociously. "Is the  master in?"

"He's at his sermon," Jean said with importance.

To interrupt the minister at such a moment seemed sacrilege to  her, for her up-bringing had been good. Her mother had once  fainted in the church, but though the family's distress was great,  they neither bore her out, nor signed to the kirk-officer to bring  water. They propped her up in the pew in a respectful attitude,  joining in the singing meanwhile, and she recovered in time to  look up 2nd Chronicles, 21st and 7th.

"Tell him I want to speak to him at the door," said the doctor  fiercely, "or I'll bleed you this minute."

McQueen would not enter, because his horse might have seized the  opportunity to return stablewards. At the houses where it was  accustomed to stop, it drew up of its own accord, knowing where  the Doctor's "cases" were as well as himself, but it resented new  patients.

"You like misery, I think, Mr. Dishart," McQueen said when Gavin  came to him, "at least I am always finding you in the thick of it,  and that is why I am here now. I have a rare job for you if you  will jump into the machine. You know Nanny Webster, who lives on  the edge of Windyghoul? No, you don't, for she belongs to the  other kirk. Well, at all events, you knew her brother, Sanders,  the mole-catcher?"

"I remember him. You mean the man who boasted so much about seeing  a ball at Lord Rintoul's place?"

"'The same, and, as you may know, his boasting about maltreating  policemen whom he never saw led to his being sentenced to nine  months in gaol lately."

"That is the man," said Gavin. "I never liked him."

"No, but his sister did," McQueen answered, drily, "and with  reason, for he was her breadwinner, and now she is starving."

"Anything I can give her--"

"Would be too little, sir."

"But the neighbours--"

"She has few near her, and though the Thrums poor help each other  bravely, they are at present nigh as needy as herself. Nanny is  coming to the poorhouse, Mr. Dishart."

"God help her!" exclaimed Gavin.

"Nonsense," said the doctor, trying to make himself a hard man.  "She will be properly looked after there, and--and in time she  will like it."

"Don't let my mother hear you speaking of taking an old woman to  that place," Gavin said, looking anxiously up the stair. I cannot  pretend that Margaret never listened.

"You all speak as if the poorhouse was a gaol," the doctor said  testily. "But so far as Nanny is concerned, everything is  arranged. I promised to drive her to the poorhouse to-day, and she  is waiting for me now. Don't look at me as if I was a brute. She  is to take some of her things with her to the poorhouse, and the  rest is to be left until Sanders's return, when she may rejoin  him. At least we said that to her to comfort her."

"You want me to go with you?"

"Yes, though I warn you it may be a distressing scene; indeed, the  truth is that I am loth to face Nanny alone to-day. Mr. Duthie  should have accompanied me, for the Websters are Established Kirk;  ay, and so he would if Rashie-bog had not been bearing. A terrible  snare this curling, Mr. Dishart"--here the doctor sighed--"I have  known Mr. Duthie wait until midnight struck on Sabbath and then be  off to Rashie-bog with a torch."

"I will go with you," Gavin said, putting on his coat.

"Jump in then. You won't smoke? I never see a respectable man not  smoking, sir, but I feel indignant with him for such sheer waste  of time."

Gavin smiled at this, and Snecky Hobart, who happened to be  keeking over the manse dyke, bore the news to the Tenements.

"I'll no sleep the nicht," Snecky said, "for wondering what made  the minister lauch. Ay, it would be no trifle."

A minister, it is certain, who wore a smile on his face would  never have been called to the Auld Licht kirk, for life is a  wrestle with the devil, and only the frivolous think to throw him  without taking off their coats. Yet, though Gavin's zeal was what  the congregation reverenced, many loved him privately for his  boyishness. He could unbend at marriages, of which he had six on  the last day of the year, and at every one of them he joked (the  same joke) like a layman. Some did not approve of his playing at  the teetotum for ten minutes with Kitty Dundas's invalid son, but  the way Kitty boasted about it would have disgusted anybody. At  the present day there are probably a score of Gavins in Thrums,  all called after the little minister, and there is one Gavinia,  whom he hesitated to christen. He made humorous remarks (the same  remark) about all these children, and his smile as he patted their  heads was for thinking over when one's work was done for the day.

The doctor's horse clattered up the Backwynd noisily, as if a  minister behind made no difference to it. Instead of climbing the  Roods, however, the nearest way to Nanny's, it went westward,  which Gavin, in a reverie, did not notice. The truth must be told.  The Egyptian was again in his head.

"Have I fallen deaf in the left ear, too?" said the doctor. "I see  your lips moving, but I don't catch a syllable."

Gavin started, coloured, and flung the gypsy out of the trap.

"Why are we not going up the Roods?" he asked.

"Well," said the doctor slowly, "at the top of the Roods there is  a stance for circuses, and this old beast of mine won't pass it.  You know, unless you are behind in the clashes and clavers of  Thrums, that I bought her from the manager of a travelling show.  She was the horse ('Lightning' they called her) that galloped  round the ring at a mile an hour, and so at the top of the Roods  she is still unmanageable. She once dragged me to the scene of her  former triumphs, and went revolving round it, dragging the machine  after her."

"If you had not explained that," said Gavin, "I might have thought  that you wanted to pass by Rashie-bog."

The doctor, indeed, was already standing up to catch a first  glimpse of the curlers.

"Well," he admitted, "I might have managed to pass the circus  ring, though what I have told you is true. However, I have not  come this way merely to see how the match is going. I want to  shame Mr. Duthie for neglecting his duty. It will help me to do  mine, for the Lord knows I am finding it hard, with the music of  these stones in my ears."

"I never saw it played before," Gavin said, standing up in his  turn. "What a din they make! McQueen, I believe they are  fighting!"

"No, no," said the excited doctor, "they are just a bit daft.  That's the proper spirit for the game. Look, that's the baron-  bailie near standing on his head, and there's Mr. Duthie off his  head a' thegither. Yon's twa weavers and a mason cursing the  laird, and the man wi' the besom is the Master of Crumnathie."

"A democracy, at all events," said Gavin.

"By no means," said the doctor, "it's an aristocracy of intellect.  Gee up, Lightning, or the frost will be gone before we are there."

"It is my opinion, doctor," said Gavin, "that you will have bones  to set before that game is finished. I can see nothing but legs  now."

"Don't say a word against curling, sir, to me," said McQueen, whom  the sight of a game in which he must not play had turned crusty.  "Dangerous! It's the best medicine I know of. Look at that man  coming across the field. It is Jo Strachan. Well, sir, curling  saved Jo's life after I had given him up. You don't believe me?  Hie, Jo, Jo Strachan, come here and tell the minister how curling  put you on your legs again."

Strachan came forward, a tough, little, wizened man, with red  flannel round his ears to keep out the cold.

"It's gospel what the doctor says, Mr. Dishart," he declared. "Me  and my brither Sandy was baith ill, and in the same bed, and the  doctor had hopes o' Sandy, but nane o' me. Ay, weel, when I heard  that, I thocht I micht as weel die on the ice as in my bed, so I  up and on wi' my claethes. Sandy was mad at me, for he was no  curler, and he says, 'Jo Strachan, if you gang to Rashie-bog  you'll assuredly be brocht hame a corp.' I didna heed him, though,  and off I gaed."

"And I see you did not die," said Gavin.

"Not me," answered the fish cadger, with a grin. "Na, but the joke  o't is, it was Sandy that died."

"Not the joke, Jo," corrected the doctor, "the moral."

"Ay, the moral; I'm aye forgetting the word."

McQueen, enjoying Gavin's discomfiture, turned Lightning down the  Rashie-bog road, which would be impassable as soon as the thaw  came. In summer Rashie-bog is several fields in which a cart does  not sink unless it stands still, but in winter it is a loch with  here and there a spring where dead men are said to lie, There are  no rushes at its east end, and here the dog-cart drew up near the  curlers, a crowd of men dancing, screaming, shaking their fists  and sweeping, while half a hundred onlookers got in their way,  gesticulating and advising.

"Hold me tight," the doctor whispered to Gavin, "or I'll be  leaving you to drive Nanny to the poorhouse by yourself."

He had no sooner said this than he tried to jump out of the trap.

"You donnert fule, John Robbie," he shouted to a player, "soop her  up, man, soop her up; no, no, dinna, dinna; leave her alane.  Bailie, leave her alane, you blazing idiot. Mr. Dishart, let me  go; what do you mean, sir, by hanging on to my coat tails? Dang it  all, Duthie's winning. He has it, he has it!"

"You're to play, doctor?" some cried, running to the dog-cart. "We  hae missed you sair."

"Jeames, I--I--. No, I daurna."

"Then we get our licks. I never saw the minister in sic form. We  can do nothing against him."

"Then," cried McQueen, "I'll play. Come what will, I'll play. Let  go my tails, Mr. Dishart, or I'll cut them off. Duty?  Fiddlesticks!"

"Shame on you, sir," said Gavin; "yes, and on you others who would  entice him from his duty."

"Shame!" the doctor cried. "Look at Mr. Duthie. Is he ashamed? And  yet that man has been reproving me for a twelvemonths because I've  refused to become one of his elders. Duthie," he shouted," think  shame of yourself for curling this day."

Mr. Duthie had carefully turned his back to the trap, for Gavin's  presence in it annoyed him. We seldom care to be reminded of our  duty by seeing another do it. Now, however, he advanced to the  dog-cart, taking the far side of Gavin.

"Put on your coat, Mr. Duthie," said the doctor, "and come with me  to Nanny Webster's. You promised."

Mr. Duthie looked quizzically at Gavin, and then at the sky.

"The thaw may come at any moment," he said.

"I think the frost is to hold," said Gavin.

"It may hold over to-morrow," Mr. Duthie admitted; "but to-  morrow's the Sabbath, and so a lost day."

"A what?" exclaimed Gavin, horrified.

"I only mean," Mr. Duthie answered, colouring, "that we can't curl  on the Lord's day. As for what it may be like on Monday, no one  can say. No, doctor, I won't risk it. We're in the middle of a  game, man."

Gavin looked very grave.

"I see what you are thinking, Mr. Dishart," the old minister said  doggedly; "but then, you don't curl. You are very wise. I have  forbidden my sons to curl."

"Then you openly snap your fingers at your duty, Mr. Duthie?" said  the doctor, loftily. ("You can let go my tails now, Mr. Dishart,  for the madness has passed.")

"None of your virtuous airs, McQueen," said Mr. Duthie, hotly.  "What was the name of the doctor that warned women never to have  bairns while it was hauding?"

"And what," retorted McQueen, "was the name of the minister that  told his session he would neither preach nor pray while the black  frost lasted?"

"Hoots, doctor," said Duthie, "don't lose your temper because I'm  in such form."

"Don't lose yours, Duthie, because I aye beat you."

"You beat me, McQueen! Go home, sir, and don't talk havers. Who  beat you at--"

"Who made you sing small at--"

"Who won--"

"Who--"

"Who--"

"I'll play you on Monday for whatever you like!" shrieked the  doctor.

"If it holds," cried the minister, "I'll be here the whole day.  Name the stakes yourself. A stone?"

"No," the doctor said, "but I'll tell you what we'll play for.  You've been dinging me doited about that eldership, and we'll play  for't. If you win I accept office."

"Done," said the minister, recklessly.

The dog-cart was now turned toward Windyghoul, its driver once  more good-humoured, but Gavin silent.

"You would have been the better of my deaf ear just now, Mr.  Dishart," McQueen said after the loch had been left behind. "Aye,  and I'm thinking my pipe would soothe you. But don't take it so  much to heart, man. I'll lick him easily. He's a decent man, the  minister, but vain of his play, ridiculously vain. However, I  think the sight of you, in the place that should have been his,  has broken his nerve for this day, and our side may win yet."

"I believe," Gavin said, with sudden enlightenment, "that you  brought me here for that purpose."

"Maybe," chuckled the doctor;  "maybe." Then he changed the  subject suddenly. "Mr. Dishart," he asked, "were you ever in  love?"

"Never!" answered Gavin violently.

"Well, well," said the doctor, "don't terrify the horse. I have  been in love myself. It's bad, but it's nothing to curling."

CHAPTER XII.   - TRAGEDY OF A MUD HOUSE.

THE dog-cart bumped between the trees of Caddam, flinging Gavin and  the doctor at each other as a wheel rose on some beech-root or  sank for a moment in a pool. I suppose the wood was a pretty sight  that day, the pines only white where they had met the snow, as if  the numbed painter had left his work unfinished, the brittle twigs  snapping overhead, the water as black as tar. But it matters  little what the wood was like. Within a squirrel's leap of it an  old woman was standing at the door of a mud house listening for  the approach of the trap that was to take her to the poorhouse.  Can you think of the beauty of the day now?

Nanny was not crying. She had redd up her house for the last time  and put on her black merino. Her mouth was wide open while she  listened. If yon had, addressed her you would have thought her  polite and stupid. Look at her. A flabby-faced woman she is now,  with a swollen body, and no one has heeded her much these thirty  years. I can tell you something; it is almost droll. Nanny Webster  was once a gay flirt, and in Airlie Square there is a weaver with  an unsteady head who thought all the earth of her. His loom has  taken a foot from his stature, and gone are Nanny's raven locks on  which he used to place his adoring hand. Down in Airlie Square he  is weaving for his life, and here is Nanny, ripe for the  poorhouse, and between them is the hill where they were lovers.  That is all the story save that when Nanny heard the dog-cart she  screamed.

No neighbour was with her. If you think this hard, it is because  you do not understand. Perhaps Nanny had never been very lovable  except to one man, and him, it is said, she lost through her own  vanity; but there was much in her to like. The neighbours, of whom  there were two not a hundred yards away, would have been with her  now but they feared to hurt her feelings. No heart opens to  sympathy without letting in delicacy, and these poor people knew  that Nanny would not like them to see her being taken away. For a  week they had been aware of what was coming, and they had been  most kind to her, but that hideous word, the poorhouse, they had  not uttered. Poorhouse is not to be spoken in Thrums, though it is  nothing to tell a man that you see death in his face. Did Nanny  think they knew where she was going? was a question they whispered  to each other, and her suffering eyes cut scars on their hearts.  So now that the hour had come they called their children into  their houses and pulled down their blinds.

"If you would like to see her by yourself," the doctor said  eagerly to Gavin, as the horse drew up at Nanny's gate, "I'll wait  with the horse. Not," he added, hastily, "that I feel sorry for  her. We are doing her a kindness."

They dismounted together, however, and Nanny, who had run from the  trap into the house, watched them from her window.

McQueen saw her and said glumly, "I should have come alone, for if  you pray she is sure to break down. Mr. Dishart, could you not  pray cheerfully?"

"You don't look very cheerful yourself," Gavin said sadly.

"Nonsense," answered the doctor. "I have no patience with this  false sentiment. Stand still, Lightning, and be thankful you are  not your master today."

The door stood open, and Nanny was crouching against the opposite  wall of the room, such a poor, dull kitchen, that you would have  thought the furniture had still to be brought into it. The blanket  and the piece of old carpet that was Nanny's coverlet were already  packed in her box. The plate rack was empty. Only the round table  and the two chairs, and the stools and some pans were being left  behind.

"Well, Nanny," the doctor said, trying to bluster, "I have come,  and you see Mr. Dishart is with me."

Nanny rose bravely. She knew the doctor was good to her, and she  wanted to thank him. I have not seen a great deal of the world  myself, but often the sweet politeness of the aged poor has struck  me as beautiful. Nanny dropped a curtesy, an ungainly one maybe,  but it was an old woman giving the best she had.

"Thank you kindly, sirs," she said; and then two pairs of eyes  dropped before hers.

"Please to take a chair," she added timidly. It is strange to know  that at that awful moment, for let none tell me it was less than  awful, the old woman was the one who could speak.

Both men sat down, for they would have hurt Nanny by remaining  standing. Some ministers would have known the right thing to say  to her, but Gavin dared not let himself speak. I have again to  remind you that he was only one-and-twenty.

"I'm drouthy, Nanny," the doctor said, to give her something to  do, "and I would be obliged for a drink of water."

Nanny hastened to the pan that stood behind her door, but stopped  before she reached it.

"It's toom," she said. "I--I didna think I needed to fill it this  morning." She caught the doctor's eye, and could only half  restrain a sob.  "I couldna help that," she said, apologetically.  "I'm richt angry at myself for being so ungrateful like."

The doctor thought it best that they should depart at once. He  rose.

"Oh, no, doctor," cried Nanny in alarm.

"But you are ready?"

"Ay," she said, "I have been ready this twa hours, but you micht  wait a minute. Hendry Munn and Andrew Allardyce is coming yont the  road, and they would see me."

"Wait, doctor," Gavin said.

"Thank you kindly, sir," answered Nanny.

"But Nanny," the doctor said, "you must remember what I told you  about the poo--, about the place you are going to. It is a fine  house, and you will be very happy in it."

"Ay, I'll be happy in't," Nanny faltered, "but, doctor, if I could  just hae bidden on here though I wasna happy!"

"Think of the food you will get: broth nearly every day."

"It--it'll be terrible enjoyable," Nanny said.

"And there will be pleasant company for you always," continued the  doctor, "and a nice room to sit in. Why, after you have been there  a week, you won't be the same woman."

"That's it!" cried Nanny with sudden passion. "Na, na; I'll be a  woman on the poor's rates. Oh, mither, mither, you little thocht  when you bore me that I would come to this!"

"Nanny," the doctor said, rising again, "I am ashamed of you."

"I humbly speir your forgiveness, sir," she said, "and you micht  bide just a wee yet. I've been ready to gang these twa hours, but  now that the machine is at the gate, I dinna ken how it is, but  I'm terrible sweer to come awa'. Oh, Mr. Dishart, it's richt true  what the doctor says about the--the place, but I canna just take  it in. I'm--I'm gey auld."

"You will often get out to see your friends," was all Gavin could  say.

"Na, na, na," she cried, "dinna say that; I'll gang, but you mauna  bid me ever come out, except in a hearse. Dinna let onybody in  Thrums look on my face again."

"We must go," said the doctor firmly. "Put on your mutch, Nanny."

"I dinna need to put on a mutch," she answered, with a faint flush  of pride. "I have a bonnet."

She took the bonnet from her bed, and put it on slowly.

"Are you sure there's naebody looking?" she asked.

The doctor glanced at the minister, and Gavin rose.

"Let us pray," he said, and the three went down on their knees.

It was not the custom of Auld Licht ministers to leave any house  without offering up a prayer in it, and to us it always seemed  that when Gavin prayed, he was at the knees of God. The little  minister pouring himself out in prayer in a humble room, with awed  people around him who knew much more of the world than he, his  voice at times thick and again a squeal, and his hands clasped not  gracefully, may have been only a comic figure, but we were old-  fashioned, and he seemed to make us better men. If I only knew the  way, I would draw him as he was, and not fear to make him too mean  a man for you to read about. He had not been long in Thrums before  he knew that we talked much of his prayers, and that doubtless  puffed him up a little. Sometimes, I daresay, he rose from his  knees feeling that he had prayed well to-day, which is a dreadful  charge to bring against anyone. But it was not always so, nor was  it so now.

I am not speaking harshly of this man, whom I have loved beyond  all others, when I say that Nanny came between him and his prayer.  Had he been of God's own image, unstained, he would have forgotten  all else in his Maker's presence, but Nanny was speaking too, and  her words choked his. At first she only whispered, but soon what  was eating her heart burst out painfully, and she did not know  that the minister had stopped.

They were such moans as these that brought him back to earth:--

"I'll hae to gang... I'm a base woman no' to be mair thankfu' to  them that is so good to me... I dinna like to prig wi' them to  take a roundabout road, and I'm sair fleid a' the Roods will see  me... If it could just be said to poor Sanders when he comes back  that I died hurriedly, syne he would be able to haud up his  head ... Oh, mither! ... I wish terrible they had come and ta'en me  at nicht... It's a dog-cart, and I was praying it micht be a cart,  so that they could cover me wi' straw."

"This is more than I can stand," the doctor cried.

Nanny rose frightened.

"I've tried you, sair," she said, "but, oh, I'm grateful, and I'm  ready now."

They all advanced toward the door without another word, and Nanny  even tried to smile. But in the middle of the floor something came  over her, and she stood there. Gavin took her hand, and it was  cold. She looked from one to the other, her mouth opening and  shutting.

"I canna help it," she said.

"It's cruel hard," muttered the doctor. "I knew this woman when  she was a lassie."

The little minister stretched out his hands.

"Have pity on her, O God!" he prayed, with the presumptuousness of  youth.

Nanny heard the words.

"Oh, God," she cried, "you micht!"

God needs no minister to tell Him what to do, but it was His will  that the poorhouse should not have this woman. He made use of a  strange instrument, no other than the Egyptian, who now opened the  mud-house door.

CHAPTER XIII.   - SECOND COMING OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN.

The gypsy had been passing the house, perhaps on her way to Thrums  for gossip, and it was only curiosity, born suddenly of Gavin's  cry, that made her enter. On finding herself in unexpected company  she retained hold of the door, and to the amazed minister she  seemed for a moment to have stepped into the mud house from his  garden. Her eyes danced, however, as they recognised him, and then  he hardened. "This is no place for you," he was saying fiercely,  when Nanny, too distraught to think, fell crying at the Egyptian's  feet.

"They are taking me to the poorhouse," she sobbed; "dinna let  them, dinna let them."

The Egyptian's arms clasped her, and the Egyptian kissed a sallow  cheek that had once been as fair as yours, madam, who may read  this story. No one had caressed Nanny for many years, but do you  think she was too poor and old to care for these young arms around  her neck? There are those who say that women cannot love each  other, but it is not true. Woman is not undeveloped man, but  something better, and Gavin and the doctor knew it as they saw  Nanny clinging to her protector. When the gypsy turned with  flashing eyes to the two men she might have been a mother guarding  her child.

"How dare you!" she cried, stamping her foot; and they quaked like  malefactors.

"You don't see--" Gavin began, but her indignation stopped him.

"You coward!" she said.

Even the doctor had been impressed, so that he now addressed the  gypsy respectfully.

"This is all very well," he said, "but a woman's sympathy--"

"A woman!--ah, if I could be a man for only five minutes!"

She clenched her little fists, and again turned to Nanny.

"You poor dear," she said tenderly, "I won't let them take you  away."

She looked triumphantly at both minister and doctor, as one who  had foiled them in their cruel designs.

"Go!" she said, pointing grandly to the door.

"Is this the Egyptian of the riots," the doctor said in a low  voice to Gavin, "or is she a queen? Hoots, man, don't look so  shamefaced. We are not criminals. Say something."

Then to the Egyptian Gavin said firmly--

"You mean well, but you are doing this poor woman a cruelty in  holding out hopes to her that cannot be realised. Sympathy is not  meal and bedclothes, and these are what she needs."

"And you who live in luxury," retorted the girl, "would send her  to the poorhouse for them. I thought better of you!"

"Tuts!" said the doctor, losing patience, "Mr. Dishart gives more  than any other man in Thrums to the poor, and he is not to be  preached to by a gypsy. We are waiting for you, Nanny."

"Ay, I'm coming," said Nanny, leaving the Egyptian. "I'll hae to  gang, lassie. Dinna greet for me."

But the Egyptian said, "No, you are not going. It is these men who  are going. Go, sirs, and leave us."

"And you will provide for Nanny?" asked the doctor contemptuously.

"Yes."

"And where is the siller to come from?"

"That is my affair, and Nanny's. Begone, both of you. She shall  never want again. See how the very mention of your going brings  back life to her face."

"I won't begone," the doctor said roughly, "till I see the colour  of your siller."

"Oh, the money," said the Egyptian scornfully. She put her hand  into her pocket confidently, as if used to well-filled purses, but  could only draw out two silver pieces.

"I had forgotten," she said aloud, though speaking to herself.

"I thought so," said the cynical doctor. "Come, Nanny."

"You presume to doubt me!" the Egyptian said, blocking his way to  the door.

"How could I presume to believe you?" he answered. "You are a  beggar by profession, and yet talk as if--pooh, nonsense."

"I would live on terrible little," Nanny whispered, "and Sanders  will be out again in August month."

"Seven shillings a week," rapped out the doctor.

"Is that all?" the Egyptian asked. "She shall have it."

"When?"

"At once. No, it is not possible to-night, but to-morrow I will  bring five pounds; no, I will send it; no, you must come for it."

"And where, O daughter of Dives, do you reside?" the doctor asked.

No doubt the Egyptian could have found a ready answer had her pity  for Nanny been less sincere; as it was, she hesitated, wanting to  propitiate the doctor, while holding her secret fast.

"I only asked," McQueen said, eyeing her curiously, "because when  I make an appointment I like to know where it is to be held. But I  suppose you are suddenly to rise out of the ground as you have  done to-day, and did six weeks ago."

"Whether I rise out of the ground or not," the gypsy said, keeping  her temper with an effort, "there will be a five-pound note in my  hand. You will meet me tomorrow about this hour at--say the Kaims  of Cushie?"

"No," said the doctor after a moment's pause; "I won't. Even if I  went to the Kaims I should not find you there. Why can you not  come to me?"

"Why do you carry a woman's hair," replied the Egyptian, "in that  locket on your chain?"

Whether she was speaking of what she knew, or this was only a  chance shot, I cannot tell, but the doctor stepped back from her  hastily, and could not help looking down at the locket.

"Yes," said the Egyptian calmly, "it is still shut; but why do you  sometimes open it at nights?"

"Lassie," the old doctor cried, "are you a witch?"

"Perhaps," she said; "but I ask for no answer to my questions. If  you have your secrets, why may I not have mine? Now will you meet  me at the Kaims?"

"No; I distrust you more than ever. Even if you came, it would be  to play with me as you have done already. How can a vagrant have  five pounds in her pocket when she does not have five shillings on  her back?"

"You are a cruel, hard man," the Egyptian said, beginning to lose  hope. "But, see," she cried, brightening, "look at this ring. Do  you know its value?"

She held up her finger, but the stone would not live in the dull  light.

"I see it is gold," the doctor said cautiously, and she smiled at  the ignorance that made him look only at the frame.

"Certainly, it is gold," said Gavin, equally stupid.

"Mercy on us!" Nanny cried; "I believe it's what they call a  diamond."

"How did you come by it?" the doctor asked suspiciously.

"I thought we had agreed not to ask each other questions," the  Egyptian answered drily. "But, see, I will give it to you to hold  in hostage. If I am not at the Kaims to get it back you can keep  it."

The doctor took the ring in his hand and examined it curiously.

"There is a quirk in this," he said at last, "that I don't like.  Take back your ring, lassie. Mr. Dishart, give Nanny your arm, and  I'll carry her box to the machine."

Now all this time Gavin had been in the dire distress of a man  possessed of two minds, of which one said, "This is a true woman,"  and the other, "Remember the seventeenth of October." They were at  war within him, and he knew that he must take a side, yet no  sooner had he cast one out than he invited it back. He did not  answer the doctor.

"Unless," McQueen said, nettled by his hesitation, "you trust this  woman's word."

Gavin tried honestly to weigh those two minds against each other,  but could not prevent impulse jumping into one of the scales.

"You do trust me," the Egyptian said, with wet eyes; and now that  he looked on her again--

"Yes," he said firmly, "I trust you," and the words that had been  so difficult to say were the right words. He had no more doubt of  it.

"Just think a moment first," the doctor warned him. "I decline to  have anything to do with this matter. You will go to the Kaims for  the siller?"

"If it is necessary," said Gavin.

"It is necessary," the Egyptian said.

"Then I will go."

Nanny took his hand timidly, and would have kissed it had he been  less than a minister.

"You dare not, man," the doctor said gruffly, "make an appointment  with this gypsy. Think of what will be said in Thrums."

I honour Gavin for the way in which he took this warning. For him,  who was watched from the rising of his congregation to their lying  down, whose every movement was expected to be a text to Thrums, it  was no small thing that he had promised. This he knew, but he only  reddened because the doctor had implied an offensive thing in a  woman's presence,

"You forget yourself, doctor," he said sharply.

"Send some one in your place," advised the doctor, who liked the  little minister.

"He must come himself and alone," said the Egyptian. "You must  both give me your promise not to mention who is Nanny's friend,  and she must promise too."

"Well," said the doctor, buttoning up his coat, "I cannot keep my  horse freezing any longer. Remember, Mr. Dishart, you take the  sole responsibility of this."

"I do," said Gavin, "and with the utmost confidence."

"Give him the ring then, lassie," said McQueen.

She handed the minister the ring, but he would not take it.

"I have your word," he said; "that is sufficient."

Then the Egyptian gave him the first look that he could think of  afterwards without misgivings.

"So be it," said the doctor. "Get the money, and I will say  nothing about it, unless I have reason to think that it has been  dishonestly come by. Don't look so frightened at me, Nanny. I hope  for your sake that her stocking-foot is full of gold."

"Surely it's worth risking," Nanny said, not very brightly, "when  the minister's on her side."

"Ay, but on whose side, Nanny?" asked the doctor. "Lassie, I bear  you no grudge; will you not tell me who you are?"

"Only a puir gypsy, your honour," said the girl, becoming  mischievous now that she had gained her point; "only a wandering  hallen-shaker, and will I tell you your fortune, my pretty  gentleman?"

"No, you shan't," replied the doctor, plunging his hands so  hastily into his pockets that Gavin laughed.

"I don't need to look at your hand," said the gypsy, "I can read  your fortune in your face."

She looked at him fixedly, so that he fidgeted.

"I see you," said the Egyptian in a sepulchral voice, and speaking  slowly, "become very frail. Your eyesight has almost gone. You are  sitting alone in a cauld room, cooking your ain dinner ower a  feeble fire. The soot is falling down the lum. Your bearish  manners towards women have driven the servant lassie frae your  house, and your wife beats you."

"Ay, you spoil your prophecy there," the doctor said, considerably  relieved, "for I'm not married; my pipe's the only wife I ever  had."

"You will be married by that time," continued the Egyptian,  frowning at this interruption, "for I see your wife. She is a  shrew. She marries you in your dotage. She lauchs at you in  company. She doesna allow you to smoke."

"Away with you, you jade," cried the doctor in a fury, and feeling  nervously for his pipe, "Mr. Dishart, you had better stay and  arrange this matter as you choose, but I want a word with you  outside."

"And you're no angry wi' me, doctor, are you?" asked Nanny  wistfully. "You've been richt good to me, but I canna thole the  thocht o' that place. And, oh, doctor, you winna tell naebody that  I was so near taen to it?"

In the garden McQueen said to Gavin:--

"You may be right, Mr. Dishart, in this matter, for there is this  in our favour, that the woman can gain nothing by tricking us. She  did seem to feel for Nanny. But who can she be? You saw she could  put on and off the Scotch tongue as easily as if it were a cap."

"She is as much a mystery to me as to you," Gavin answered, "but  she will give me the money, and that is all I ask of her."

"Ay, that remains to be seen. But take care of yourself; a man's  second childhood begins when a woman gets hold of him."

"Don't alarm yourself about me, doctor. I daresay she is only one  of those gypsies from the South. They are said to be wealthy, many  of them, and even, when they like, to have a grand manner. The  Thrums people had no doubt but that she was what she seemed to  be."

"Ay, but what does she seem to be? Even that puzzles me. And then  there is this mystery about her which she admits herself, though  perhaps only to play with us."

"Perhaps," said Gavin, "she is only taking precautions against her  discovery by the police. You must remember her part in the riots."

"Yes, but we never learned how she was able to play that part.  Besides, there is no fear in her, or she would not have ventured  back to Thrums. However, good luck attend you. But be wary. You  saw how she kept her feet among her shalls and wills? Never trust  a Scotch man or woman who does not come to grief among them."

The doctor took his seat in the dog-cart.

"And, Mr. Dishart," he called out, "that was all nonsense about  the locket."

CHAPTER XIV.   - THE MINISTER DANCES TO THE WOMAN'S PIPING.

Gavin let the doctor's warnings fall in the grass. In his joy over  Nanny's deliverance he jumped the garden gate, whose hinges were  of yarn, and cleverly caught his hat as it was leaving his head in  protest. He then re-entered the mud house staidly. Pleasant was  the change. Nanny's home was as a clock that had been run out, and  is set going again. Already the old woman was unpacking her box,  to increase the distance between herself and the poorhouse. But  Gavin only saw her in the background, for the Egyptian, singing at  her work, had become the heart of the house. She had flung her  shawl over Nanny's shoulders, and was at the fireplace breaking  peats with the leg of a stool. She turned merrily to the minister  to ask him to chop up his staff for firewood, and he would have  answered wittily but could not. Then, as often, the beauty of the  Egyptian surprised him into silence. I could never get used to her  face myself in the after-days. It has always held me wondering,  like my own Glen Quharity on a summer day, when the sun is  lingering and the clouds are on the march, and the glen is never  the same for two minutes, but always so beautiful as to make me  sad. Never will I attempt to picture the Egyptian as she seemed to  Gavin while she bent over Nanny's fire, never will I describe my  glen. Yet a hundred times have I hankered after trying to picture  both.

An older minister, believing that Nanny's anguish was ended, might  have gone on his knees and finished the interrupted prayer, but  now Gavin was only doing this girl's bidding.

"Nanny and I are to have a dish of tea, as soon as we have set  things to rights," she told him, "Do you think we should invite  the minister, Nanny?"

"We couldna dare," Nanny answered quickly,

"You'll excuse her, Mr. Dishart, for the presumption?"

"Presumption!" said the Egyptian, making a face.

"Lassie," Nanny said, fearful to offend her new friend, yet  horrified at this affront to the minister, "I ken you mean weel,  but Mr. Dishart'll think you're putting yoursel' on an equality  wi' him." She added in a whisper, "Dinna be so free; he's the Auld  Licht minister."

The gypsy bowed with mock awe, but Gavin let it pass. He had,  indeed, forgotten that he was anybody in particular, and was  anxious to stay to tea.

"But there is no water," he remembered, "and is there any tea?"

"I am going out for them and for some other things," the Egyptian  explained. "But no," she continued, reflectively, "if I go for the  tea, you must go for the water."

"Lassie," cried Nanny, "mind wha you're speaking to. To send a  minister to the well!"

"I will go," said Gavin, recklessly lifting the pitcher. "The well  is in the wood, I think?"

"Gie me the pitcher, Mr. Dishart," said Nanny, in distress. "What  a town there would be if you was seen wi't!"

"Then he must remain here and keep the house till we come back,"  said the Egyptian, and thereupon departed, with a friendly wave of  her hand to the minister.

"She's an awfu' lassie," Nanny said, apologetically, "but it'll  just be the way she has been brought up."

"She has been very good to you, Nanny."

"She has; leastwise, she promises to be. Mr. Dishart, she's awa';  what if she doesna come back?"

Nanny spoke nervously, and Gavin drew a long face.

"I think she will," he said faintly. "I am confident of it," he  added in the same voice.

"And has she the siller?"

"I believe in her," said Gavin, so doggedly that his own words  reassured him. "She has an excellent heart."

"Ay," said Nanny, to whom the minister's faith was more than the  Egyptian's promise, "and that's hardly natural in a gaen-aboot  body. Yet a gypsy she maun be, for naebody would pretend to be ane  that wasna. Tod, she proved she was an Egyptian by dauring to send  you to the well."

This conclusive argument brought her prospective dower so close to  Nanny's eyes that it hid the poorhouse.

"I suppose she'll gie you the money," she said, "and syne you'll  gie me the seven shillings a week?"

"That seems the best plan," Gavin answered.

"And what will you gie it me in?" Nanny asked, with something on  her mind. "I would be terrible obliged if you gae it to me in  saxpences."

"Do the smaller coins go farther?" Gavin asked, curiously.

"Na, it's no that. But I've heard tell o' folk giving away half-  crowns by mistake for twa-shilling bits; ay, and there's something  dizzying in ha'en fower-and-twenty pennies In one piece; it has  sic terrible little bulk. Sanders had aince a gold sovereign, and  he looked at it so often that it seemed to grow smaller and  smaller in his hand till he was feared it micht just be a half  after all."

Her mind relieved on this matter, the old woman set off for the  well. A minute afterwards Gavin went to the door to look for the  gypsy, and, behold, Nanny was no further than the gate. Have you  who read ever been sick near to death, and then so far recovered  that you could once again stand at your window? If so, you have  not forgotten how the beauty of the world struck you afresh, so  that you looked long and said many times, "How fair a world it  is!" like one who had made a discovery. It was such a look that  Nanny gave to the hill and Caddam while she stood at her garden  gate.

Gavin returned to the fire and watched a girl in it in an  officer's cloak playing at hide and seek with soldiers. After a  time he sighed, then looked round sharply to see who had sighed,  then, absent-mindedly, lifted the empty kettle and placed it on  the glowing peats. He was standing glaring at the kettle, his arms  folded, when Nanny returned from the well.

"I've been thinking," she said, "o' something that proves the  lassie to be just an Egyptian. Ay, I noticed she wasna nane awed  when I said you was the Auld Licht minister. Weel, I'se uphaud  that came frae her living ower muckle in the open air. Is there  no' a smell o' burning in the house?"

"I have noticed it," Gavin answered, sniffing, "since you came in.  I was busy until then, putting on the kettle. The smell is  becoming worse."

Nanny had seen the empty kettle on the fire as he began to speak,  and so solved the mystery. Her first thought was to snatch the  kettle out of the blaze, but remembering who had put it there, she  dared not. She sidled toward the hearth instead, and saying  craftily, "Ay, here it is; it's a clout among the peats," softly  laid the kettle on the earthen floor. It was still red with  sparks, however, when the gypsy reappeared.

"Who burned the kettle?" she asked, ignoring Nanny's signs.

"Lassie," Nanny said, "it was me;" but Gavin, flushing, confessed  his guilt.

"Oh, you stupid!" exclaimed the Egyptian, shaking her two ounces  of tea (which then cost six shillings the pound) in his face.

At this Nanny wrung her hands, crying, "That's waur than  swearing."

"If men," said the gypsy, severely, "would keep their hands in  their pockets all day, the world's affairs would be more easily  managed."

"Wheesht!" cried Nanny, "if Mr. Dishart cared to set his mind to  it, he could make the kettle boil quicker than you or me. But his  thochts is on higher things."

"No higher than this," retorted the gypsy, holding her hand level  with her brow. "Confess, Mr. Dishart, that this is the exact  height of what you were thinking about. See, Nanny, he is blushing  as if I meant that he had been thinking about me. He cannot  answer, Nanny: we have found him out."

"And kindly of him it is no to answer," said Nanny, who had been  examining the gypsy's various purchases; "for what could he  answer, except that he would need to be sure o' living a thousand  years afore he could spare five minutes on you or me? Of course it  would be different if we sat under him."

"And yet," said the Egyptian, with great solemnity, "he is to  drink tea at that very table. I hope you are sensible of the  honour, Nanny."

"Am I no?" said Nanny, whose education had not included sarcasm.  "I'm trying to keep frae thinking o't till he's gone, in case I  should let the teapot fall."

"You have nothing to thank me for, Nanny," said Gavin, "but much  for which to thank this--this--"

"This haggarty-taggarty Egyptian," suggested the girl. Then,  looking at Gavin curiously, she said, "But my name is Babbie."

"That's short for Barbara," said Nanny; "but Babbie what?"

"Yes, Babbie Watt," replied the gypsy, as if one name were as good  as another.

"Weel, men, lift the lid off the kettle, Babbie," said Nanny, "for  it's boiling ower."

Gavin looked at Nanny with admiration and envy, for she had said  Babbie as coolly as if it was the name of a pepper-box.

Babbie tucked up her sleeves to wash Nanny's cups and saucers,  which even in the most prosperous days of the mud house had only  been in use once a week, and Gavin was so eager to help that he  bumped his head on the plate-rack.

"Sit there," said Babbie, authoritatively, pointing, with a cup in  her hand, to a stool, "and don't rise till I give you permission.  "

To Nanny's amazement, he did as he was bid.

"I got the things in the little shop you told me of," the Egyptian  continued, addressing the mistress of the house, "but the horrid  man would not give them to me until he had seen my money."

"Enoch would be suspicious o' you," Nanny explained, "you being an  Egyptian."

"Ah," said Babbie, with a side-glance at the minister, "I am only  an Egyptian. Is that why you dislike me, Mr. Dishart?" Gavin  hesitated foolishly over his answer, and the Egyptian, with a  towel round her waist, made a pretty gesture of despair.

"He neither likes you nor dislikes you," Nanny explained; "you  forget he's a minister."

"That is what I cannot endure," said Babbie, putting the towel to  her eyes, "to be neither liked nor disliked. Please hate me, Mr.  Dishart, if you cannot lo--ove me."

Her face was behind the towel, and Gavin could not decide whether  it was the face or the towel that shook with agitation. He gave  Nanny a look that asked, "Is she really crying?" and Nanny  telegraphed back, "I question it."

"Come, come," said the minister, gallantly, "I did not say that I  disliked you."

Even this desperate compliment had not the desired effect, for the  gypsy continued to sob behind her screen.

"I can honestly say," went on Gavin, as solemnly as if he were  making a statement in a court of justice, "that I like you."

Then the Egyptian let drop her towel, and replied with equal  solemnity:

"Oh, tank oo! Nanny, the minister says me is a dood 'ittle dirl."

"He didna gang that length," said Nanny, sharply, to cover Gavin's  confusion. "Set the things, Babbie, and I'll make the tea."

The Egyptian obeyed demurely, pretending to wipe her eyes every  time Gavin looked at her. He frowned at this, and then she  affected to be too overcome to go on with her work.

"Tell me, Nanny," she asked presently, "what sort of man this  Enoch is, from whom I bought the things?"

"He is not very regular, I fear," answered Gavin, who felt that he  had sat silent and self-conscious on his stool too long.

"Do you mean that he drinks?" asked Babbie.

"No, I mean regular in his attendance."

The Egyptian's face showed no enlightenment.

"His attendance at church," Gavin explained.

"He's far frae it," said Nanny, "and as a body kens, Joe  Cruickshanks, the atheist, has the wite o' that. The scoundrel  telled Enoch that the great ministers in Edinbury and London  believed in no hell except sic as your ain conscience made for  you, and ever since syne Enoch has been careless about the future  state."

"Ah," said Babbie, waving the Church aside, "what I want to know  is whether he is a single man."

"He is not," Gavin replied; "but why do you want to know that?"

"Because single men are such gossips. I am sorry he is not single,  as I want him to repeat to everybody what I told him."

"Trust him to tell Susy," said Nanny, "and Susy to tell the town."

"His wife is a gossip?"

"Ay, she's aye tonguing, especially about her teeth. They're folk  wi' siller, and she has a set o' false teeth. It's fair  scumfishing to hear her blawing about thae teeth, she's so fleid  we dinna ken that they're false."

Nanny had spoken jealously, but suddenly she trembled with  apprehension.

"Babbie," she cried, "you didna speak about the poorhouse to  Enoch?"

The Egyptian shook her head, though of the poorhouse she had been  forced to speak, for Enoch, having seen the doctor going home  alone, insisted on knowing why.

"But I knew," the gypsy said, "that the Thrums people would be  very unhappy until they discovered where you get the money I am to  give you, and as that is a secret, I hinted to Enoch that your  benefactor is Mr. Dishart."

"You should not have said that," interposed Gavin. "I cannot  foster such a deception."

"They will foster it without your help," the Egyptian said.  "Besides, if you choose, you can say you get the money from a  friend."

"Ay, you can say that," Nanny entreated with such eagerness that  Babbie remarked a little bitterly:

"There is no fear of Nanny's telling any one that the friend is a  gypsy girl."

"Na, na," agreed Nanny, again losing Babbie's sarcasm. "I winna  let on. It's so queer to be befriended by an Egyptian."

"It is scarcely respectable," Babbie said.

"It's no," answered simple Nanny.

I suppose Nanny's unintentional cruelty did hurt Babbie as much as  Gavin thought. She winced, and her face had two expressions, the  one cynical, the other pained. Her mouth curled as if to tell the  minister that gratitude was nothing to her, but her eyes had to  struggle to keep back a tear. Gavin was touched, and she saw it,  and for a moment they were two people who understood each other.

"I, at least," Gavin said in a low voice, "will know who is the  benefactress, and think none the worse of her because she is a  gypsy."

At this Babbie smiled gratefully to him, and then both laughed,  for they had heard Nanny remarking to the kettle, "But I wouldna  hae been nane angry if she had telled Enoch that the minister was  to take his tea here. Susy'll no believe't though I tell her, as  tell her I will."

To Nanny the table now presented a rich appearance, for besides  the teapot there were butter and loaf-bread and cheesies: a  biscuit of which only Thrums knows the secret.

"Draw in your chair, Mr. Dishart," she said, in suppressed  excitement.

"Yes," said Babbie, "you take this chair, Mr. Dishart, and Nanny  will have that one, and I can sit humbly on the stool."

But Nanny held up her hands in horror.

"Keep us a'!" she exclaimed; "the lassie thinks her and me is to  sit down wi' the minister! We're no to gang that length, Babbie;  we're just to stand and serve him, and syne we'll sit down when he  has risen."

"Delightful!" said Babbie, clapping her hands. "Nanny, you kneel  on that side of him, and I will kneel on this. You will hold the  butter and I the biscuits."

But Gavin, as this girl was always forgetting, was a lord of  creation.

"Sit down both of you at once!" he thundered, "I command you."

Then the two women fell into their seats; Nanny in terror, Babbie  affecting it.

CHAPTER XV.   - THE MINISTER BEWITCHED--SECOND SERMON AGAINST WOMEN.

To Nanny it was a dizzying experience to sit at the head of her  own table, and, with assumed calmness, invite the minister not to  spare the loaf-bread. Babbie's prattle, and even Gavin's answers,  were but an indistinct noise to her, to be as little regarded, in  the excitement of watching whether Mr. Dishart noticed that there  was a knife for the butter, as the music of the river by a man who  is catching trout. Every time Gavin's cup went to his lips Nanny  calculated (correctly) how much he had drunk, and yet, when the  right moment arrived, she asked in the English voice that is  fashionable at ceremonies, "if his cup was toom."

Perhaps it was well that Nanny had these matters to engross her,  for though Gavin spoke freely, he was saying nothing of lasting  value, and some of his remarks to the Egyptian, if preserved for  the calmer contemplation of the morrow, might have seemed  frivolous to himself. Usually his observations were scrambled for,  like ha'pence at a wedding, but to-day they were only for one  person. Infected by the Egyptian's high spirits, Gavin had laid  aside the minister with his hat, and what was left was only a  young man. He who had stamped his feet at thought of a soldier's  cloak now wanted to be reminded of it. The little minister, who  used to address himself in terms of scorn every time he wasted an  hour, was at present dallying with a teaspoon. He even laughed  boisterously, flinging back his head, and little knew that behind  Nanny's smiling face was a terrible dread, because his chair had  once given way before.

Even though our thoughts are not with our company, the mention of  our name is a bell to which we usually answer. Hearing hers Nanny  started.

"You can tell me, Nanny," the Egyptian had said, with an arch look  at the minister. "Oh, Nanny, for shame! How can you expect to  follow our conversation when you only listen to Mr. Dishart?"

"She is saying, Nanny," Gavin broke in, almost gaily for a  minister, "that she saw me recently wearing a cloak. You know I  have no such thing."

"Na," Nanny answered artlessly, "you have just the thin brown coat  wi' the braid round it, forby the ane you have on the now."

"You see," Gavin said to Babbie, "I could not have a new  neckcloth, not to speak of a cloak, without everybody in Thrums  knowing about it. I dare say Nanny knows all about the braid, and  even what it cost."

"Three bawbees the yard at Kyowowy's shop," replied Nanny,  promptly, "and your mother sewed it on. Sam'l Fairweather has the  marrows o't on his top coat. No that it has the same look on him."

"Nevertheless," Babbie persisted, "I am sure the minister has a  cloak; but perhaps he is ashamed of it. No doubt it is hidden away  in the garret."

"Na, we would hae kent o't if it was there," said Nanny.

"But it may be in a chest, and the chest may be locked," the  Egyptian suggested.

"Ay, but the kist in the garret isna locked," Nanny answered.

"How do you get to know all these things, Nanny?" asked Gavin,  sighing.

"Your congregation tells me. Naebody would lay by news about a  minister."

"But how do they know?"

"I dinna ken. They just find out, because they're so fond o' you."

"I hope they will never become so fond of me as that," said  Babbie. "Still, Nanny, the minister's cloak is hidden somewhere."

"Losh, what would make him hod it?" demanded the old woman. "Folk  that has cloaks doesna bury them in boxes."

At the word "bury" Gavin's hand fell on the table, and he returned  to Nanny apprehensively.

"That would depend on how the cloak was got," said the cruel  Egyptian. "If it was not his own--"

"Lassie," cried Nanny, "behave yoursel'."

"Or if he found it in his possession against his will?" suggested  Gavin, slyly. "He might have got it from some one who picked it up  cheap."

"From his wife, for instance," said Babbie, whereupon Gavin  suddenly became interested in the floor.

"Ay, ay, the minister was hitting at you there, Babbie," Nanny  explained, "for the way you made off wi' the captain's cloak. The  Thrums folk wondered less at your taking it than at your no  keeping it. It's said to be michty grand."

"It was rather like the one the minister's wife gave him," said  Babbie.

"The minister has neither a wife nor a cloak," retorted Nanny.

"He isn't married?" asked Babbie, the picture of incredulity.

Nanny gathered from the minister's face that he deputed to her the  task of enlightening this ignorant girl, so she replied with  emphasis, "Na, they hinna got him yet, and I'm cheated if it  doesna tak them all their time."

Thus do the best of women sell their sex for nothing.

"I did wonder," said the Egyptian, gravely, "at any mere woman's  daring to marry such a minister."

"Ay," replied Nanny, spiritedly, "but there's dauring limmers  wherever there's a single man."

"So I have often suspected," said Babbie, duly shocked. "But,  Nanny, I was told the minister had a wife, by one who said he saw  her."

"He lied, then," answered Nanny turning to Gavin for further  instructions.

"But, see, the minister does not deny the horrid charge himself."

"No, and for the reason he didna deny the cloak: because it's no  worth his while. I'll tell you wha your friend had seen. It would  be somebody that would like to be Mrs. Dishart. There's a hantle  o' that kind. Ay, lassie, but wishing winna land a woman in a  manse."

"It was one of the soldiers," Babbie said, "who told me about her.  He said Mr. Dishart introduced her to him."

"Sojers!" cried Nanny. "I could never thole the name o' them.  Sanders in his young days hankered after joining them, and so he  would, if it hadna been for the fechting. Ay, and now they've  ta'en him awa to the gaol, and sworn lies about him. Dinna put any  faith in sojers, lassie."

"I was told," Babbie went on, "that the minister's wife was rather  like me."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Nanny, so fervently that all three  suddenly sat back from the table.

"I'm no meaning," Nanny continued hurriedly, fearing to offend her  benefactress, "but what you're the bonniest tid I ever saw out o'  an almanack. But you would ken Mr. Dishart's contempt for bonny  faces if you had heard his sermon against them. I didna hear it  mysel', for I'm no Auld Licht, but it did the work o' the town for  an aucht days."

If Nanny had not taken her eyes off Gavin for the moment she would  have known that he was now anxious to change the topic. Babbie saw  it, and became suspicious.

"When did he preach against the wiles of women, Nanny?"

"It was long ago," said Gavin, hastily.

"No so very lang syne," corrected Nanny. "It was the Sabbath after  the sojers was in Thrums; the day you changed your text so  hurriedly. Some thocht you wasna weel, but Lang Tammas--"

"Thomas Whamond is too officious," Gavin said with dignity. "I  forbid you, Nanny, to repeat his story."

"But what made you change your text?" asked Babbie.

"You see he winna tell," Nanny said, wistfully. "Ay, I dinna deny  but what I would like richt to ken. But the session's as puzzled  as yoursel', Babbie."

"Perhaps more puzzled," answered the Egyptian, with a smile that  challenged Gavin's frowns to combat and overthrow them. "What  surprises me, Mr. Dishart, is that such a great man can stoop to  see whether women are pretty or not. It was very good of you to  remember me to-day. I suppose you recognized me by my frock?"

"By your face," he replied, boldly; "by your eyes."

"Nanny," exclaimed the Egyptian, "did you hear what the minister  said?"

"Woe is me," answered Nanny, "I missed it."

"He says he would know me anywhere by my eyes."

"So would I mysel'," said Nanny.

"Then what colour are they, Mr. Dishart?" demanded Babbie. "Don't  speak, Nanny, for I want to expose him."

She closed her eyes tightly. Gavin was in a quandary. I suppose he  had looked at her eyes too long to know much about them.

"Blue," he guessed at last.

"Na, they're black," said Nanny, who had doubtless known this for  an hour. I am always marvelling over the cleverness of women, as  every one must see who reads this story.

"No but what they micht be blue in some lichts," Nanny added, out  of respect to the minister.

"Oh, don't defend him, Nanny," said Babbie, looking reproachfully  at Gavin. "I don't see that any minister has a right to denounce  women when he is so ignorant of his subject. I will say it, Nanny,  and you need not kick me beneath the table."

Was not all this intoxicating to the little minister, who had  never till now met a girl on equal terms? At twenty-one a man is a  musical instrument given to the other sex, but it is not as  instruments learned at school, for when She sits down to it she  cannot tell what tune she is about to play. That is because she  has no notion of what the instrument is capable. Babbie's kind-  heartedness, her gaiety, her coquetry, her moments of sadness, had  been a witch's fingers, and Gavin was still trembling under their  touch. Even in being taken to task by her there was a charm, for  every pout of her mouth, every shake of her head, said, "You like  me, and therefore you have given me the right to tease you." Men  sign these agreements without reading them. But, indeed, man is a  stupid animal at the best, and thinks all his life that he did not  propose until he blurted out, "I love you."

It was later than it should have been when the minister left the  mud house, and even then he only put on his hat because Babbie  said that she must go.

"But not your way," she added. "I go into the wood and vanish. You  know, Nanny, I live up a tree."

"Dinna say that," said Nanny, anxiously, "or I'll be fleid about  the siller."

"Don't fear about it. Mr. Dishart will get some of it to-morrow at  the Kaims. I would bring it here, but I cannot come so far to-  morrow."

"Then I'll hae peace to the end o' my days," said the old woman,  "and, Babbie, I wish the same to you wi' all my heart."

"Ah," Babbie replied, mournfully, "I have read my fortune, Nanny,  and there is not much happiness in it.""

"I hope that is not true," Gavin said, simply.

They were standing at the door, and she was looking toward the  hill, perhaps without seeing it. All at once it came to Gavin that  this fragile girl might have a history far sadder and more  turbulent than his.

"Do you really care?" she asked, without looking at him.

"Yes," he said stoutly, "I care."

"Because you do not know me," she said.

"Because I do know you," he answered.

Now she did look at him.

"I believe," she said, making a discovery, "that you misunderstand  me less than those who have known me longer."

This was a perilous confidence, for it at once made Gavin say  "Babbie."

"Ah," she answered, frankly, "I am glad to hear that. I thought  you did not really like me, because you never called me by my  name."

Gavin drew a great breath.

"That was not the reason," he said.

The reason was now unmistakable.

"I was wrong," said the Egyptian, a little alarmed; "you do not  understand me at all."

She returned to Nanny, and Gavin set off, holding his head high,  his brain in a whirl. Five minutes afterwards, when Nanny was at  the fire, the diamond ring on her little finger, he came back,  looking like one who had just seen sudden death.

"I had forgotten," he said, with a fierceness aimed at himself,  "that to-morrow is the Sabbath."

"Need that make any difference?" asked the gypsy.

"At this hour on Monday," said Gavin, hoarsely, "I will be at the  Kaims."

He went away without another word, and Babbie watched him from the  window. Nanny had not looked up from the ring.

"What a pity he is a minister!" the girl said, reflectively.  "Nanny, you are not listening."

The old woman was making the ring flash by the light of the fire.

"Nanny, do you hear me? Did you see Mr. Dishart come back?"

"I heard the door open," Nanny answered, without taking her greedy  eyes off the ring. "Was it him? Whaur did you get this, lassie?"

"Give it me back, Nanny, I am going now."

But Nanny did not give it back; she put her other hand over it to  guard it, and there she crouched, warming herself not at the fire,  but at the ring.

"Give it me, Nanny."

"It winna come off my finger." She gloated over it, nursed it,  kissed it.

"I must have it, Nanny."

The Egyptian put her hand lightly on the old woman's shoulder, and  Nanny jumped up, pressing the ring to her bosom. Her face had  become cunning and ugly; she retreated into a corner.

"Nanny, give me back my ring or I will take it from you."

The cruel light of the diamond was in Nanny's eyes for a moment,  and then, shuddering, she said, "Tak your ring awa, tak it out o'  my sicht."

In the meantime Gavin was trudging home gloomily composing his  second sermon against women. I have already given the entry in my  own diary for that day: this is his:--"Notes on Jonah. Exchanged  vol. xliii., 'European Magazine,' for Owen's 'Justification' (per  flying stationer). Began Second Samuel. Visited Nanny Webster."  There is no mention of the Egyptian.

CHAPTER XVI.   - CONTINUED MISBEHAVIOUR OF THE EGYPTIAN WOMAN.

BY the following Monday it was known at many looms that something  sat heavily on the Auld Licht minister's mind. On the previous day  he had preached his second sermon of warning to susceptible young  men, and his first mention of the word "woman" had blown even the  sleepy heads upright. Now he had salt fish for breakfast, and on  clearing the table Jean noticed that his knife and fork were  uncrossed. He was observed walking into a gooseberry bush by Susy  Linn, who possessed the pioneer spring-bed of Thrums, and always  knew when her man jumped into it by suddenly finding herself shot  to the ceiling. Lunan, the tinsmith, and two women, who had the  luck to be in the street at the time, saw him stopping at Dr.  McQueen's door, as if about to knock, and then turning smartly  away. His hat blew off in the school wynd, where a wind wanders  ever, looking for hats, and he chased it so passionately that Lang  Tammas went into Allardyce's smiddy to say--

"I dinna like it. Of course he couldna afford to lose his hat, but  he should hae run after it mair reverently."

Gavin, indeed, was troubled. He had avoided speaking of the  Egyptian to his mother. He had gone to McQueen's house to ask the  doctor to accompany him to the Kaims, but with the knocker in his  hand he changed his mind, and now he was at the place of meeting  alone. It was a day of thaw, nothing to be heard from a distance  but the swish of curling-stones through water on Rashie-bog, where  the match for the eldership was going on. Around him. Gavin saw  only dejected firs with drops of water falling listlessly from  them, clods of snow, and grass that rustled as if animals were  crawling through it. All the roads were slack.

I suppose no young man to whom society has not become a cheap  thing can be in Gavin's position, awaiting the coming of an  attractive girl, without giving thought to what he should say to  her. When in the pulpit or visiting the sick, words came in a rush  to the little minister, but he had to set his teeth to determine  what to say to the Egyptian.

This was because he had not yet decided which of two women she  was. Hardly had he started on one line of thought when she crossed  his vision in a new light, and drew him after her.

Her "Need that make any difference?" sang in his ear like another  divit, cast this time at religion itself, and now he spoke aloud,  pointing his finger at a fir: "I said at the mud house that I  believed you because I knew you. To my shame be it said that I  spoke falsely. How dared you bewitch me? In your presence I flung  away the precious hours in frivolity; I even forgot the Sabbath.  For this I have myself to blame. I am an unworthy preacher of the  Word. I sinned far more than you who have been brought up  godlessly from your cradle. Nevertheless, whoever you are, I call  upon you, before we part never to meet again, to repent of your--"

And then it was no mocker of the Sabbath he was addressing, but a  woman with a child's face, and there were tears in her eyes. "Do  you care?" she was saying, and again he answered, "Yes, I care."  This girl's name was not Woman, but Babbie.

Now Gavin made an heroic attempt to look upon both these women at  once. "Yes, I believe in you," he said to them, "but henceforth  you must send your money to Nanny by another messenger. You are a  gypsy and I am a minister; and that must part us. I refuse to see  you again. I am not angry with you, but as a minister--"

It was not the disappearance of one of the women that clipped this  argument short; it was Babbie singing--

"It fell on a day, on a bonny summer day,        When the corn grew green and yellow,     That there fell out a great dispute        Between Argyle and Airly.

"The Duke of Montrose has written to Argyle        To come in the morning early,     An' lead in his men by the back o' Dunkeld        To plunder the bonny house o' Airly."

"Where are you?" cried Gavin in bewilderment.

"I am watching you from my window so high," answered the Egyptian;  and then the minister, looking up, saw her peering at him from a  fir.

"How did you get up there?" he asked in amazement.

"On my broomstick," Babbie replied, and sang on--

"The lady looked o'er her window sae high,        And oh! but she looked weary,     And there she espied the great Argyle        Come to plunder the bonny house o' Airly."

"What are you doing there?" Gavin said, wrathfully.

"This is my home," she answered. "I told you I lived in a tree."

"Come down at once," ordered Gavin. To which the singer responded-  -

"'Come down, come down, Lady Margaret,' he says;        'Come down and kiss me fairly     Or before the morning clear day light        I'll no leave a standing stane in Airly.'"

"If you do not come down this instant," Gavin said in a rage, "and  give me what I was so foolish as to come for, I--"

The Egyptian broke in--

"'I wouldna kiss thee, great Argyle,      I wouldna kiss thee fairly;     I wouldna kiss thee, great Argyle,      Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane in Airly.'"

"You have deceived Nanny," Gavin cried, hotly, "and you have  brought me here to deride me. I will have no more to do with you."

He walked away quickly, but she called after him, "I am coming  down. I have the money," and next moment a snowball hit his hat.

"That is for being cross," she explained, appearing so  unexpectedly at his elbow that he was taken aback. "I had to come  close up to you before I flung it, or it would have fallen over my  shoulder. Why are you so nasty to-day? and, oh, do you know you  were speaking to yourself?"

"You are mistaken," said Gavin, severely. "I was speaking to you."

"You didn't see me till I began to sing, did you?"

"Nevertheless I was speaking to you, or rather, I was saying to  myself what--"

"What you had decided to say to me?" said the delighted gypsy. "Do  you prepare your talk like sermons? I hope you have prepared  something nice for me. If it is very nice I may give you this  bunch of holly."

She was dressed as he had seen her previously, but for a cluster  of holly berries at her breast.

"I don't know that you will think it nice," the minister answered,  slowly, "but my duty--" "If it is about duty," entreated Babbie,  "don't say it. Don't, and I will give you the berries."

She took the berries from her dress, smiling triumphantly the  while like one who had discovered a cure for duty; and instead of  pointing the finger of wrath at her, Gavin stood expectant.

"But no," he said, remembering who he was, and pushing the gift  from him, "I will not be bribed. I must tell you--"

"Now," said the Egyptian, sadly, "I see you are angry with me. Is  it because I said I lived in a tree? Do forgive me for that  dreadful lie."

She had gone on her knees before he could stop her, and was gazing  imploringly at him, with her hands clasped.

"You are mocking me again," said Gavin, "but I am not angry with  you. Only you must understand--"

She jumped up and put her fingers to her ears.

"You see I can hear nothing," she said.

"Listen while I tell you--"

"I don't hear a word. Why do you scold me when I have kept my  promise? If I dared to take my fingers from my ears I would give  you the money for Nanny. And, Mr. Dishart, I must be gone in five  minutes."

"In five minutes!" echoed Gavin, with such a dismal face that  Babbie heard the words with her eyes, and dropped her hands.

"Why are you in such haste?" he asked, taking the five pounds  mechanically, and forgetting all that he had meant to say.

"Because they require me at home," she answered, with a sly glance  at her fir. "And, remember, when I run away you must not follow  me."

"I won't," said Gavin, so promptly that she was piqued.

"Why not?" she asked. "But of course you only came here for the  money. Well, you have got it. Good-bye."

"You know that was not what I meant," said Gavin, stepping after  her. "I have told you already that whatever other people say, I  trust you. I believe in you, Babbie."

"Was that what you were saying to the tree?" asked the Egyptian,  demurely. Then, perhaps thinking it wisest not to press this  point, she continued irrelevantly, "It seems such a pity that you  are a minister."

"A pity to be a minister!" exclaimed Gavin, indignantly. "Why,  why, you--why, Babbie, how have you been brought up?"

"In a curious way," Babbie answered, shortly, "but I can't tell  you about that just now. Would you like to hear all about me?"  Suddenly she seemed to have become confidential.

"Do you really think me a gypsy?" she asked.

"I have tried not to ask myself that question."

"Why?"

"Because it seems like doubting your word."

"I don't see how you can think of me at all without wondering who  I am."

"No, and so I try not to think of you at all."

"Oh, I don't know that you need do that."

"I have not quite succeeded."

The Egyptian's pique had vanished, but she may have thought that  the conversation was becoming dangerous, for she said abruptly--

"Well, I sometimes think about you."

"Do you?" said Gavin, absurdly gratified. "What do you think about  me?"

"I wonder," answered the Egyptian, pleasantly, "which of us is the  taller."

Gavin's fingers twitched with mortification, and not only his  fingers but his toes.

"Let us measure," she said, sweetly, putting her back to his. "You  are not stretching your neck, are you?"

But the minister broke away from her.

"There is one subject," he said, with great dignity, "that I allow  no one to speak of in my presence, and that is my--my height."

His face was as white as his cravat when the surprised Egyptian  next looked at him, and he was panting like one who has run a  mile. She was ashamed of herself, and said so.

"It is a topic I would rather not speak about," Gavin answered,  dejectedly, "especially to you."

He meant that he would rather be a tall man in her company than in  any other, and possibly she knew this, though all she answered  was--

"You wanted to know if I am really a gypsy. Well, I am."

"An ordinary gypsy?"

"Do you think me ordinary?"

"I wish I knew what to think of you."

"Ah, well, that is my forbidden topic. But we have a good many  ideas in common after all, have we not, though you are only a  minis--I mean, though I am only a gypsy?"

There fell between them a silence that gave Babbie time to  remember she must go.

"I have already stayed too long," she said. "Give my love to  Nanny, and say that I am coming to see her soon, perhaps on  Monday. I don't suppose you will be there on Monday, Mr. Dishart?"

"I--I cannot say."

"No, you will be too busy. Are you to take the holly berries?"

"I had better not," said Gavin, dolefully.

"Oh, if you don't want them--"

"Give them to me," he said, and as he took them his hand shook.

"I know why you are looking so troubled," said the Egyptian,  archly. "You think I am to ask you the colour of my eyes, and you  have forgotten again."

He would have answered, but she checked him.

"Make no pretence," she said, severely; "I know you think they are  blue."

She came close to him until her face almost touched his.

"Look hard at them," she said, solemnly, "and after this you may  remember that they are black, black, black!"

At each repetition of the word she shook her head in his face. She  was adorable. Gavin's arms--but they met on nothing. She had run  away.

When the little minister had gone, a man came from behind a tree  and shook his fist in the direction taken by the gypsy. It was Rob  Dow, black with passion.

"It's the Egyptian!" he cried. "You limmer, wha are you that hae  got haud o' the minister?"

He pursued her, but she vanished as from Gavin is Windyghoul.

"A common Egyptian!" he muttered when he had to give up the  search. "But take care, you little devil," he called aloud; "take  care; if I catch you playing pranks wi' that man again I'll wring  your neck like a hen's!"

CHAPTER XVII.   - INTRUSION OF HAGGART INTO THESE PAGES AGAINST THE AUTHOR'S WISH.

Margaret having heard the doctor say that one may catch cold in  the back, had decided instantly to line Gavin's waistcoat with  flannel. She was thus engaged, with pins in her mouth and the  scissors hiding from her every time she wanted them, when Jean,  red and flurried, abruptly entered the room.

"There! I forgot to knock at the door again," Jean exclaimed,  pausing contritely.

"Never mind. Is it Rob Dow wanting the minister?" asked Margaret,  who had seen Rob pass the manse dyke.

"Na, he wasna wanting to see the minister."

"Ah, then, he came to see you, Jean," said Margaret, archly.

"A widow man!" cried Jean, tossing her head. "But Rob Dow was in  no condition to be friendly wi' onybody the now."

"Jean, you don't mean that he has been drinking again?"

"I canna say he was drunk."

"Then what condition was he in?"

"He was in a--a swearing condition," Jean answered, guardedly.  "But what I want to speir at you is, can I gang down to the  Tenements for a minute? I'll run there and back."

"Certainly you can go, Jean, but you must not run. You are always  running. Did Dow bring you word that you were wanted in the  Tenements?"

"No exactly, but I--I want to consult Tammas Haggart about--about  something."

"About Dow, I believe, Jean?"

"Na, but about something he has done. Oh, ma'am, you surely dinna  think I would take a widow man?"

It was the day after Gavin's meeting with the Egyptian at the  Kaims, and here is Jean's real reason for wishing to consult  Haggart. Half an hour before she hurried to the parlour she had  been at the kitchen door wondering whether she should spread out  her washing in the garret or risk hanging it in the courtyard. She  had just decided on the garret when she saw Rob Dow morosely  regarding her from the gateway.

"Whaur is he?" growled Rob.

"He's out, but it's no for me to say whaur he is," replied Jean,  whose weakness was to be considered a church official. "No that I  ken," truthfulness compelled her to add, for she had an ambition  to be everything she thought Gavin would like a woman to be.

Rob seized her wrists viciously and glowered into her face.

"You're ane o' them," he said.

"Let me go. Ane o' what?"

"Ane o' thae limmers called women."

"Sal," retorted Jean with spirit, "you're ane o' thae brutes  called men. You're drunk, Rob Dow."

"In the legs maybe, but no higher. I haud a heap."

"Drunk again, after all your promises to the minister! And you  said yoursel' that he had pulled you out o' hell by the root."

"It's himsel' that has flung me back again," Rob said, wildly.  "Jean Baxter, what does it mean when a minister carries flowers in  his pouch; ay, and takes them out to look at them ilka minute?"

"How do you ken about the holly?" asked Jean, off her guard.

"You limmer," said Dow, "you've been in his pouches."

"It's a lie!" cried the outraged Jean. "I just saw the holly this  morning in a jug on his chimley."

"Carefully put by? Is it hod on the chimley? Does he stand looking  at it? Do you tell me he's fond-like o't?"

"Mercy me!" Jean exclaimed, beginning to shake; "wha is she, Rob  Dow?"

"Let me see it first in its jug," Rob answered, slyly, "and syne I  may tell you." This was not the only time Jean had been asked to  show the minister's belongings. Snecky Hobart, among others, had  tried on Gavin's hat in the manse kitchen, and felt queer for some  time afterwards. Women had been introduced on tiptoe to examine  the handle of his umbrella. But Rob had not come to admire. He  snatched the holly from Jean's hands, and casting it on the ground  pounded it with his heavy boots, crying, "Greet as you like, Jean.  That's the end o' his flowers, and if I had the tawpie he got them  frae I would serve her in the same way."

"I'll tell him what you've done," said terrified Jean, who had  tried to save the berries at the expense of her fingers.

"Tell him," Dow roared; "and tell him what I said too. Ay, and  tell him I was at the Kaims yestreen. Tell him I'm hunting high  and low for an Egyptian woman."

He flung recklessly out of the courtyard, leaving Jean looking  blankly at the mud that had been holly lately. Not his act of  sacrilege was distressing her, but his news. Were these berries a  love token? Had God let Rob Dow say they were a gypsy's love  token, and not slain him?

That Rob spoke of the Egyptian of the riots Jean never doubted. It  was known that the minister had met this woman in Nanny Webster's  house, but was it not also known that he had given her such a  talking-to as she could never come above? Many could repeat the  words in which he had announced to Nanny that his wealthy friends  in Glasgow were to give her all she needed. They could also tell  how majestic he looked when he turned the Egyptian out of the  house. In short, Nanny having kept her promise of secrecy, the  people had been forced to construct the scene in the mud house for  themselves, and it was only their story that was known to Jean.

She decided that, so far as the gypsy was concerned, Rob had  talked trash. He had seen the holly in the minister's hand, and,  being in drink, had mixed it up with the gossip about the  Egyptian. But that Gavin had preserved the holly because of the  donor was as obvious to Jean as that the vase in her hand was  empty. Who could she be? No doubt all the single ladies in Thrums  were in love with him, but that, Jean was sure, had not helped  them a step forward.

To think was to Jean a waste of time. Discovering that she had  been thinking, she was dismayed. There were the wet clothes in the  basket looking reproachfully at her. She hastened back to Gavin's  room with the vase, but it too had eyes, and they said, "When the  minister misses his holly he will question you." Now Gavin had  already smiled several times to Jean, and once he had marked  passages for her in her "Pilgrim's Progress," with the result that  she prized the marks more even than the passages. To lose his good  opinion was terrible to her. In her perplexity she decided to  consult wise Tammas Haggart, and hence her appeal to Margaret.

To avoid Chirsty, the humourist's wife, Jean sought Haggart at his  workshop window, which was so small that an old book sufficed for  its shutter. Haggart, whom she could see distinctly at his loom,  soon guessed from her knocks and signs (for he was strangely quick  in the uptake) that she wanted him to open the window.

"I want to speak to you confidentially," Jean said in a low voice.  "If you saw a grand man gey fond o' a flower, what would you  think?"

"I would think, Jean," Haggart answered, reflectively, "that he  had gien siller for't; ay, I would wonder--"

"What would you wonder?"

"I would wonder how muckle he paid."

"But if he was a--a minister, and keepit the flower--say it was a  common rose--fond-like on his chimley, what would you think?"

"I would think it was a black-burning disgrace for a minister to  be fond o' flowers."

"I dinna haud wi' that."

"Jean," said Haggart, "I allow no one to contradict me."

"It wasna my design. But, Tammas, if a--a minister was fond o' a  particular flower--say a rose--and you destroyed it by an  accident, when he wasna looking, what would you do?"

"I would gie him another rose for't."

"But if you didna want him to ken you had meddled wi't on his  chimley, what would you do?"

"I would put the new rose on the chimley, and he would never ken  the differ."

"That's what I'll do." muttered Jean, but she said aloud--

"But it micht be that particular rose he liked?"

"Havers, Jean. To a thinking man one rose is identical wi' another  rose. But how are you speiring?"

"Just out o' curiosity, and I maun be stepping now. Thank you  kindly, Tammas, for your humour."

"You're welcome," Haggart answered, and closed his window.

That day Rob Dow spent in misery, but so little were his fears  selfish that he scarcely gave a thought to his conduct at the  manse. For an hour he sat at his loom with his arms folded. Then  he slouched out of the house, cursing little Micah, so that a  neighbour cried "You drunken scoundrel!" after him. "He may be a  wee drunk," said Micah in his father's defense, "but he's no  mortal." Rob wandered to the Kaims in search of the Egyptian, and  returned home no happier. He flung himself upon his bed and dared  Micah to light the lamp. About gloaming he rose, unable to keep  his mouth shut on his thoughts any longer, and staggered to the  Tenements to consult Haggart. He found the humourist's door ajar,  and Wearyworld listening at it. "Out o' the road!" cried Rob,  savagely, and flung the policeman into the gutter.

"That was ill-dune, Rob Dow," Wearyworld said, picking himself up  leisurely.

"I'm thinking it was weel-dune," snarled Rob.

"Ay," said Weary world, "we needna quarrel about a difference o'  opeenion; but, Rob--"

Dow, however, had already entered the house and slammed the door.

"Ay, ay," muttered Wearyworld, departing, "you micht hae stood  still, Rob, and argued it out wi' me."

In less than an hour after his conversation with Jean at the  window it had suddenly struck Haggart that the minister she spoke  of must be Mr. Dishart. In two hours he had confided his  suspicions to Chirsty. In ten minutes she had filled the house  with gossips. Rob arrived to find them in full cry.

"Ay, Rob," said Chirsty, genially, for gossip levels ranks,  "you're just in time to hear a query about the minister."

"Rob," said the Glen Quharity post, from whom I subsequently got  the story, "Mr. Dishart has fallen in--in--what do you call the  thing, Chirsty?"

Birse knew well what the thing was called, but the word is a  staggerer to say in company.

"In love," answered Chirsty, boldly.

"Now we ken what he was doing in the country yestreen," said  Snecky Hobart, "the which has been, bothering us sair."

"The manse is fu' o' the flowers she sends him," said Tibbie  Craik. "Jean's at her wits'-end to ken whaur to put them a'."

"Wha is she?"

It was Rob Dow who spoke. All saw he had been drinking, or they  might have wondered at his vehemence. As it was, everybody looked  at every other body, and then everybody sighed.

"Ay, wha is she?" repeated several.

"I see you ken nothing about her," said Rob, much relieved; and he  then lapsed into silence.

"We ken a' about her," said Snecky, "except just wha she is. Ay,  that's what we canna bottom. Maybe you could guess, Tammas?"

"Maybe I could, Sneck," Haggart replied, cautiously; "but on that  point I offer no opinion."

"If she bides on the Kaims road," said Tibbie Craik, "she maun be  a farmer's dochter. What say you to Bell Finlay?"

"Na; she's U. P. But it micht be Loups o' Malcolm's sister. She's  promised to Muckle Haws; but no doubt she would gie him the go-by  at a word frae the minister."

"It's mair likely," said Chirsty, "to be the factor at the  Spittal's lassie. The factor has a grand garden, and that would  account for such basketfuls o' flowers."

"Whaever she is," said Birse, "I'm thinking he could hae done  better."

"I'll be fine pleased wi' ony o' them," said Tibbie, who had a  magenta silk, and so was jealous of no one.

"It hasna been proved," Haggart pointed out, "that the flowers  came frae thae parts. She may be sending them frae Glasgow."

"I aye understood it was a Glasgow lady," said Snecky. "He'll be  like the Tilliedrum minister that got a lady to send him to the  college on the promise that he would marry her as soon as he got a  kirk. She made him sign a paper."

"The far-seeing limmer," exclaimed Chirsty. "But if that's what  Mr. Dishart has done, how has he kept it so secret?"

"He wouldna want the women o' the congregation to ken he was  promised till after they had voted for him."

"I dinna haud wi' that explanation o't," said Haggart, "but I may  tell you that I ken for sure she's a Glasgow leddy. Lads,  ministers is near aye bespoke afore they're licensed. There's a  michty competition for them in the big toons. Ay, the leddies just  stand at the college gates, as you may say, and snap them up as  they come out."

"And just as well for the ministers, I'se uphaud," said Tibbie,  "for it saves them a heap o' persecution when they come to the  like o' Thrums. There was Mr. Meiklejohn, the U. P. minister: he  was no sooner placed than every genteel woman in the town was  persecuting him. The Miss Dobies was the maist shameless; they  fair hunted him."

"Ay," said Snecky; "and in the tail o' the day ane o' them snacked  him up. Billies, did you ever hear o' a minister being refused?"

"Never."

"Weel, then, I have; and by a widow woman too. His name was  Samson, and if it had been Tamson she would hae ta'en him. Ay, you  may look, but it's true. Her name was Turnbull, and she had  another gent after her, name o' Tibbets. She couldna make up her  mind atween them, and for a while she just keeped them dangling  on. Ay, but in the end she took Tibbets. And what, think you, was  her reason? As you ken, thae grand folk has their initials on  their spoons and nichtgowns. Ay, weel, she thocht it would be mair  handy to take Tibbets, because if she had ta'en the minister the  T's would have had to be changed to S's. It was thoctfu' o' her."

"Is Tibbets living?" asked Haggart sharply.

"No; he's dead."

"What," asked Haggart, "was the corp to trade?"

"I dinna ken."

"I thocht no," said Haggart, triumphantly. "Weel, I warrant he was  a minister too. Ay, catch a woman giving up a minister, except for  another minister."

All were looking on Haggart with admiration, when a voice from the  door cried--

"Listen, and I'll tell you a queerer ane than that."

"Dagont," cried Birse, "it's Wearywarld, and he has been  hearkening. Leave him to me."

When the post returned, the conversation was back at Mr. Dishart.

"Yes, lathies," Haggart was saying, "daftness about women comes to  all, gentle and simple, common and colleged, humourists and no  humourists. You say Mr. Dishart has preached ower muckle at women  to stoop to marriage, but that makes no differ. Mony a humorous  thing hae I said about women, and yet Chirsty has me. It's the  same wi' ministers. A' at aince they see a lassie no' unlike ither  lassies, away goes their learning, and they skirl out, 'You  dawtie!' That's what comes to all."

"But it hasna come to Mr. Dishart," cried Rob Dow, jumping to his  feet. He had sought Haggart to tell him all, but now he saw the  wisdom of telling nothing. "I'm sick o' your blathers. Instead o'  the minister's being sweethearting yesterday, he was just at the  Kaims visiting the gamekeeper. I met him in the Wast town-end, and  gaed there and back wi' him."

"That's proof it's a Glasgow leddy," said Snecky.

"I tell you there's no leddy ava!" swore Rob.

"Yea, and wha sends the baskets o' flowers, then?"

"There was only one flower," said Rob, turning to his host.

"I aye understood," said Haggart heavily, "that there was only one  flower."

"But though there was just ane," persisted Chirsty, "what we want  to ken is wha gae him it."

"It was me that gae him it," said Rob; "it was growing on the  roadside, and I plucked it and gae it to him."

The company dwindled away shamefacedly, yet unconvinced; but  Haggart had courage to say slowly--

"Yes, Rob, I had aye a notion that he got it frae you."

Meanwhile, Gavin, unaware that talk about him and a woman unknown  had broken out in Thrums, was gazing, sometimes lovingly and again  with scorn, at a little bunch of holly-berries which Jean had  gathered from her father's garden. Once she saw him fling them out  of his window, and then she rejoiced. But an hour afterwards she  saw him pick them up, and then she mourned. Nevertheless, to her  great delight, he preached his third sermon against Woman on the  following Sabbath. It was universally acknowledged to be the best  of the series. It was also the last.

CHAPTER XVIII.   - CADDAM--LOVE LEADING TO A RUPTURE.

Gavin told himself not to go near the mud house on the following  Monday; but he went. The distance is half a mile, and the time he  took was two hours. This was owing to his setting out due west to  reach a point due north; yet with the intention of deceiving none  save himself. His reason had warned him to avoid the Egyptian, and  his desires had consented to be dragged westward because they knew  he had started too soon. When the proper time came they knocked  reason on the head and carried him straight to Caddam. Here reason  came to, and again began to state its case. Desires permitted him  to halt, as if to argue the matter out, but were thus tolerant  merely because from where he stood he could see Nanny's doorway.  When Babbie emerged from it reason seems to have made one final  effort, for Gavin quickly took that side of a tree which is loved  of squirrels at the approach of an enemy. He looked round the  tree-trunk at her, and then reason discarded him. The gypsy had  two empty pans in her hands, For a second she gazed in the  minister's direction, then demurely leaped the ditch of leaves  that separated Nanny's yard from Caddam, and strolled into the  wood. Discovering with indignation that he had been skulking  behind the tree, Gavin came into the open. How good of the  Egyptian, he reflected, to go to the well for water, and thus save  the old woman's arms! Reason shouted from near the manse (he only  heard the echo) that he could still make up on it. "Come along."  said his desires, and marched him prisoner to the well.

The path which Babbie took that day is lost in blaeberry leaves  now, and my little maid and I lately searched for an hour before  we found the well. It was dry, choked with broom and stones, and  broken rusty pans, but we sat down where Babbie and Gavin had  talked, and I stirred up many memories. Probably two of those  pans, that could be broken in the hands to-day like shortbread,  were Nanny's, and almost certainly the stones are fragments from  the great slab that used to cover the well. Children like to peer  into wells to see what the world is like at the other side, and so  this covering was necessary. Rob Angus was the strong man who bore  the stone to Caddam, flinging it a yard before him at a time. The  well had also a wooden lid with leather hinges, and over this the  stone was dragged.

Gavin arrived at the well in time to offer Babbie the loan of his  arms. In her struggle she had taken her lips into her mouth, but  in vain did she tug at the stone, which refused to do more than  turn round on the wood. But for her presence, the minister's  efforts would have been equally futile. Though not strong,  however, he had the national horror of being beaten before a  spectator, and once at school he had won a fight by telling his  big antagonist to come on until the boy was tired of pummelling  him. As he fought with the stone now, pains shot through his head,  and his arms threatened to come away at the shoulders; but remove  it he did.

"How strong you are!" Babbie said with open admiration.

I am sure no words of mine could tell how pleased the minister  was; yet he knew he was not strong, and might have known that she  had seen him do many things far more worthy of admiration without  admiring them. This, indeed, is a sad truth, that we seldom give  our love to what is worthiest in its object.

"How curious that we should have met here," Babbie said, in her  dangerously friendly way, as they filled the pans. "Do you know I  quite started when your shadow fell suddenly on the stone. Did you  happen to be passing through the wood?"

"No," answered truthful Gavin, "I was looking for you. I thought  you saw me from Nanny's door."

"Did you? I only saw a man hiding behind a tree, and of course I  knew it could not be you."

Gavin looked at her sharply, but she was not laughing at him.

"It was I," he admitted; "but I was not exactly hiding behind the  tree."

"You had only stepped behind it for a moment," suggested the  Egyptian.

Her gravity gave way to laughter under Gavin's suspicious looks,  but the laughing ended abruptly. She had heard a noise in the  wood, Gavin heard it too, and they both turned round in time to  see two ragged boys running from them. When boys are very happy  they think they must be doing wrong, and in a wood, of which they  are among the natural inhabitants, they always take flight from  the enemy, adults, if given time. For my own part, when I see a  boy drop from a tree I am as little surprised as if he were an  apple or a nut. But Gavin was startled, picturing these spies  handing in the new sensation about him at every door, as a  district visitor distributes tracts. The gypsy noted his  uneasiness and resented it.

"What does it feel like to be afraid?" she asked, eyeing him.

"I am afraid of nothing," Gavin answered, offended in turn.

"Yes, you are. When you saw me come out of Nanny's you crept  behind a tree; when these boys showed themselves you shook. You  are afraid of being seen with me. Go away, then; I don't want  you."

"Fear," said Gavin, "is one thing, and prudence is another."

"Another name for it," Babbie interposed.

"Not at all; but I owe it to my position to be careful. Unhappily,  you do not seem to feel--to recognise--to know--"

"To know what?"

"Let us avoid the subject."

"No," the Egyptian said, petulantly. "I hate not to be told  things. Why must you be 'prudent?'"

"You should see," Gavin replied, awkwardly, "that there is a--a  difference between a minister and a gypsy."

"But if I am willing to overlook it?" asked Babbie, impertinently.

Gavin beat the brushwood mournfully with his staff.

"I cannot allow you," he said, "to talk disrespectfully of my  calling. It is the highest a man can follow. I wish--"

He checked himself; but he was wishing she could see him in his  pulpit.

"I suppose," said the gypsy, reflectively, "one must be very  clever to be a minister."

"As for that--" answered Gavin, waving his hand grandly.

"And it must be nice, too," continued Babbie, "to be able to speak  for a whole hour to people who can neither answer nor go away. Is  it true that before you begin to preach you lock the door to keep  the congregation in?"

"I must leave you if you talk in that way."

"I only wanted to know."

"Oh, Babbie, I am afraid you have little acquaintance with the  inside of churches. Do you sit under anybody?"

"Do I sit under anybody?" repeated Babbie, blankly.

Is it any wonder that the minister sighed? "Whom do you sit  under?" was his form of salutation to strangers.

"I mean, where do you belong?" he said.

"Wanderers," Babbie answered, still misunderstanding him, "belong  to nowhere in particular."

"I am only asking you if you ever go to church?"

"Oh, that is what you mean. Yes, I go often."

"What church?"

"You promised not to ask questions."

"I only mean what denomination do you belong to?"

"Oh, the--the--Is there an English church denomination?"

Gavin groaned.

"Well, that is my denomination," said Babbie, cheerfully. "Some  day, though, I am coming to hear you preach. I should like to see  how you look in your gown."

"We don't wear gowns."

"What a shame! But I am coming, nevertheless. I used to like going  to church in Edinburgh."

"You have lived in Edinburgh?"

"We gypsies have lived everywhere," Babbie said, lightly, though  she was annoyed at having mentioned Edinburgh.

"But all gypsies don't speak as you do," said Gavin, puzzled  again. "I don't understand you."

"Of course you dinna," replied Babbie, in broad Scotch. "Maybe, if  you did, you would think that it's mair imprudent in me to stand  here cracking clavers wi' the minister than for the minister to  waste his time cracking wi' me."

"Then why do it?"

"Because--Oh, because prudence and I always take different roads."

"Tell me who you are, Babbie," the minister entreated; "at least,  tell me where your encampment is."

"You have warned me against imprudence," she said.

"I want," Gavin continued, earnestly, "to know your people, your  father and mother."

"Why?"

"Because," he answered, stoutly, "I like their daughter."

At that Babbie's fingers played on one of the pans, and, for the  moment, there was no more badinage in her.

"You are a good man," she said, abruptly; "but you will never know  my parents."

"Are they dead?"

"They may be; I cannot tell."

"This is all incomprehensible to me."

"I suppose it is. I never asked any one to understand me."

"Perhaps not," said Gavin, excitedly; "but the time has come when  I must know everything of you that is to be known."

Babbie receded from him in quick fear.

"You must never speak to me in that way again," she said, in a  warning voice.

"In what way?"

Gavin knew what way very well, but he thirsted to hear in her  words what his own had implied. She did not choose to oblige him,  however.

"You never will understand me," she said. "I daresay I might be  more like other people now, if--if I had been brought up  differently. Not," she added, passionately, "that I want to be  like others. Do you never feel, when you have been living a  humdrum life for months, that you must break out of it, or go  crazy?"

Her vehemence alarmed Gavin, who hastened to reply--

"My life is not humdrum. It is full of excitement, anxieties,  pleasures, and I am too fond of the pleasures. Perhaps it is  because I have more of the luxuries of life than you that I am so  content with my lot."

"Why, what can you know of luxuries?"

"I have eighty pounds a year."

Babble laughed. "Are ministers so poor?" she asked, calling back  her gravity.

"It is a considerable sum," said Gavin, a little hurt, for it was  the first time he had ever heard any one speak disrespectfully of  eighty pounds.

The Egyptian looked down at her ring, and smiled.

"I shall always remember your saying that," she told him, "after  we have quarrelled."

"We shall not quarrel," said Gavin, decidedly.

"Oh, yes, we shall."

"We might have done so once, but we know each other too well now."

"That is why we are to quarrel."

"About what?" said the minister. "I have not blamed you for  deriding my stipend, though how it can seem small in the eyes of a  gypsy--"

"Who can afford," broke in Babbie, "to give Nanny seven shillings  a week?"

"True," Gavin said, uncomfortably, while the Egyptian again toyed  with her ring. She was too impulsive to be reticent except now and  then, and suddenly she said, "You have looked at this ring before  now. Do you know that if you had it on your finger you would be  more worth robbing than with eighty pounds in each of your  pockets?"

"Where did you get it?" demanded Gavin, fiercely.

"I am sorry I told you that," the gypsy said, regretfully.

"Tell me how you got it," Gavin insisted, his face now hard.

"Now, you see, we are quarrelling."

"I must know."

"Must know! You forget yourself," she said haughtily.

"No, but I have forgotten myself too long. Where did you get that  ring?"

"Good afternoon to you," said the Egyptian, lifting her pans.

"It is not good afternoon," he cried, detaining her. "It is good-  bye for ever, unless you answer me."

"As you please," she said. "I will not tell you where I got my  ring. It is no affair of yours."

"Yes, Babbie, it is."

She was not, perhaps, greatly grieved to hear him say so, for she  made no answer.

"You are no gypsy," he continued, suspiciously.

"Perhaps not," she answered, again taking the pans.

"This dress is but a disguise."

"It may be. Why don't you go away and leave me?"

"I am going," he replied, wildly. "I will have no more to do with  you. Formerly I pitied you, but--"

He could not have used a word more calculated to rouse the  Egyptian's ire, and she walked away with her head erect. Only once  did she look back, and it was to say--

"This is prudence--now."

CHAPTER XIX.   - CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO THE FIRST SERMON IN APPROVAL OF WOMEN.

A young man thinks that he alone of mortals is impervious to love,  and so the discovery that he is in it suddenly alters his views of  his own mechanism. It is thus not unlike a rap on the funny-bone.  Did Gavin make this discovery when the Egyptian left him?  Apparently he only came to the brink of it and stood blind. He had  driven her from him for ever, and his sense of loss was so acute  that his soul cried out for the cure rather than for the name of  the malady.

In time he would have realised what had happened, but time was  denied him, for just as he was starting for the mud house Babbie  saved his dignity by returning to him. It was not her custom to  fix her eyes on the ground as she walked, but she was doing so  now, and at the same time swinging the empty pans. Doubtless she  had come back for more water, in the belief that Gavin had gone.  He pronounced her name with a sense of guilt, and she looked up  surprised, or seemingly surprised, to find him still there.

"I thought you had gone away long ago," she said stiffly.

"Otherwise," asked Gavin the dejected, "you would not have come  back to the well?"

"Certainly not."

"I am very sorry. Had you waited another moment I should have been  gone."

This was said in apology, but the wilful Egyptian chose to change  its meaning.

"You have no right to blame me for disturbing you," she declared  with warmth.

"I did not. I only--"

"You could have been a mile away by this time. Nanny wanted more  water."

Babbie scrutinised the minister sharply as she made this  statement. Surely her conscience troubled her, for on his not  answering immediately she said, "Do you presume to disbelieve me?  What could have made me return except to fill the pans again?"

"Nothing," Gavin admitted eagerly, "and I assure you--"

Babbie should have been grateful to his denseness, but it merely  set her mind at rest.

"Say anything against me you choose," she told him. "Say it as  brutally as you like, for I won't listen."

She stopped to hear his response to that, and she looked so cold  that it almost froze on Gavin's lips.

"I had no right," he said, dolefully, "to speak to you as I did."

"You had not," answered the proud Egyptian. She was looking away  from him to show that his repentance was not even interesting to  her. However, she had forgotten already not to listen.

"What business is it of mine?" asked Gavin, amazed at his late  presumption, "whether you are a gypsy or no?"

"None whatever."

"And as for the ring--"

Here he gave her an opportunity of allowing that his curiosity  about the ring was warranted. She declined to help him, however,  and so he had to go on.

"The ring is yours," he said, "and why should you not wear it?"

"Why, indeed?"

"I am afraid I have a very bad temper."

He paused for a contradiction, but she nodded her head in  agreement.

"And it is no wonder," he continued, "that you think me a--a  brute."

"I'm sure it is not."

"But, Babbie, I want you to know that I despise myself for my base  suspicions. No sooner did I see them than I loathed them and  myself for harbouring them. Despite this mystery, I look upon you  as a noble-hearted girl. I shall always think of you so."

This time Babbie did not reply.

"That was all I had to say," concluded Gavin, "except that I hope  you will not punish Nanny for my sins. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the Egyptian, who was looking at the well.

The minister's legs could not have heard him give the order to  march, for they stood waiting.

"I thought," said the Egyptian, after a moment, "that you said you  were going."

"I was only--brushing my hat," Gavin answered with dignity. "You  want me to go?"

She bowed, and this time he did set off.

"You can go if you like," she remarked now.

He turned at this.

"But you said--" he began, diffidently.

"No, I did not," she answered, with indignation.

He could see her face at last.

"You--you are crying!" he exclaimed, in bewilderment.

"Because you are so unfeeling," sobbed Babbie.

"What have I said, what have I done?" cried Gavin, in an agony of  self-contempt "Oh, that I had gone away at once!"

"That is cruel."

"What is?"

"To say that."

"What did I say?"

"That you wished you had gone away."

"But surely," the minister faltered, "you asked me to go."

"How can you say so?" asked the gypsy, reproachfully.

Gavin was distracted. "On my word," he said, earnestly, "I thought  you did. And now I have made you unhappy. Babbie, I wish I were  anybody but myself; I am a hopeless lout."

"Now you are unjust," said Babbie, hiding her face.

"Again? To you?"

"No, you stupid," she said, beaming on him in her most delightful  manner, "to yourself!"

She gave him both her hands impetuously, and he did not let them  go until she added:

"I am so glad that you are reasonable at last. Men are so much  more unreasonable than women, don't you think?"

"Perhaps we are," Gavin said, diplomatically.

"Of course you are. Why, every one knows that. Well, I forgive  you; only remember, you have admitted that it was all your fault?"

She was pointing her finger at him like a schoolmistress, and  Gavin hastened to answer--

"You were not to blame at all."

"I like to hear you say that," explained the representative of the  more reasonable sex, "because it was really all my fault."

"No, no."

"Yes, it was; but of course I could not say so until you had asked  my pardon. You must understand that?"

The representative of the less reasonable sex could not understand  it, but he agreed recklessly, and it seemed so plain to the woman  that she continued confidentially--

"I pretended that I did not want to make it up, but I did."

"Did you?" asked Gavin, elated.

"Yes, but nothing could have induced me to make the first advance.  You see why?"

"Because I was so unreasonable?" asked Gavin, doubtfully.

"Yes, and nasty. You admit you were nasty?"

"Undoubtedly, I have an evil temper. It has brought me to shame  many times."

"Oh, I don't know," said the Egyptian, charitably. "I like it. I  believe I admire bullies."

"Did I bully you?"

"I never knew such a bully. You quite frightened me."

Gavin began to be less displeased with himself.

"You are sure," inquired Babbie, "that you had no right to  question me about the ring?"

"Certain," answered Gavin.

"Then I will tell you all about it," said Babbie, "for it is  natural that you should want to know."

He looked eagerly at her, and she had become serious and sad.

"I must tell you at the same time," she said, "who I am, and then-  -then we shall never see each other any more."

"Why should you tell me?" cried Gavin, his hand rising to stop  her.

"Because you have a right to know," she replied, now too much in  earnest to see that she was yielding a point. "I should prefer not  to tell you; yet there is nothing wrong in my secret, and it may  make you think of me kindly when I have gone away."

"Don't speak in that way, Babbie, after you have forgiven me."

"Did I hurt you? It was only because I know that you cannot trust  me while I remain a mystery. I know you would try to trust me, but  doubts would cross your mind. Yes, they would; they are the  shadows that mysteries cast. Who can believe a gypsy if the odds  are against her?"

"I can," said Gavin; but she shook her head, and so would he had  he remembered three recent sermons of his own preaching.

"I had better tell you all," she said, with an effort.

"It is my turn now to refuse to listen to you," exclaimed Gavin,  who was only a chivalrous boy. "Babbie, I should like to hear your  story, but until you want to tell it to me I will not listen to  it. I have faith in your honour, and that is sufficient."

It was boyish, but I am glad Gavin said it; and now Babbie admired  something in him that deserved admiration. His faith, no doubt,  made her a better woman.

"I admit that I would rather tell you nothing just now," she said,  gratefully. "You are sure you will never say again that you don't  understand me?"

"Quite sure," said Gavin, bravely. "And by-and-by you will offer  to tell me of your free will?"

"Oh, don't let us think of the future," answered Babbie. "Let us  be happy for the moment."

This had been the Egyptian's philosophy always, but it was ill-  suited for Auld Licht ministers, as one of them was presently to  discover.

"I want to make one confession, though," Babbie continued, almost  reluctantly. "When you were so nasty a little while ago, I didn't  go back to Nanny's. I stood watching you from behind a tree, and  then, for an excuse to come back, I--I poured out the water. Yes,  and I told you another lie. I really came back to admit that it  was all my fault, if I could not get you to say that it was yours.  I am so glad you gave in first."

She was very near him, and the tears had not yet dried on her  eyes. They were laughing eyes, eyes in distress, imploring eyes.  Her pale face, smiling, sad, dimpled, yet entreating forgiveness,  was the one prominent thing in the world to him just then. He  wanted to kiss her. He would have done it as soon as her eyes  rested on his, but she continued without regarding him--

"How mean that sounds! Oh, if I were a man I should wish to be  everything that I am not, and nothing that I am. I should scorn to  be a liar, I should choose to be open in all things, I should try  to fight the world honestly. But I am only a woman, and so--well,  that is the kind of man I should like to marry."

"A minister may be all these things," said Gavin, breathlessly.

"The man I could love," Babbie went on, not heeding him, almost  forgetting that he was there, "must not spend his days in idleness  as the men I know do."

"I do not."

"He must be brave, no mere worker among others, but a leader of  men."

"All ministers are."

"Who makes his influence felt."

"Assuredly."

"And takes the side of the weak against the strong, even though  the strong be in the right."

"Always my tendency."

"A man who has a mind of his own, and having once made it up  stands to it in defiance even of--"

"Of his session."

"Of the world. He must understand me."

"I do."

"And be my master."

"It is his lawful position in the house."

"He must not yield to my coaxing or tempers."

"It would be weakness."

"But compel me to do his bidding; yes, even thrash if--"

"If you won't listen to reason. Babbie," cried Gavin, "I am that  man!"

Here the inventory abruptly ended, and these two people found  themselves staring at each other, as if of a sudden they had heard  something dreadful. I do not know how long they stood thus,  motionless and horrified. I cannot tell even which stirred first.  All I know is that almost simultaneously they turned from each  other and hurried out of the wood in opposite directions.

CHAPTER XX.   - END OF THE STATE OF INDECISION.

Long before I had any thought of writing this story, I had told it  so often to my little maid that she now knows some of it better  than I. If you saw me looking up from my paper to ask her, "What  was it that Birse said to Jean about the minister's flowers?" or,  "Where was Hendry Munn hidden on the night of the riots?" and  heard her confident answers, you would conclude that she had been  in the thick of these events, instead of born many years after  them. I mention this now because I have reached a point where her  memory contradicts mine. She maintains that Rob Dow was told of  the meeting in the wood by the two boys whom it disturbed, while  my own impression is that he was a witness of it. If she is right,  Rob must have succeeded in frightening the boys into telling no  other person, for certainly the scandal did not spread in Thrums.  After all, however, it is only important to know that Rob did  learn of the meeting. Its first effect was to send him sullenly to  the drink.

Many a time since these events have I pictured what might have  been their upshot had Dow confided their discovery to me. Had I  suspected why Rob was grown so dour again, Gavin's future might  have been very different. I was meeting Rob now and again in the  glen, asking, with an affected carelessness he did not bottom, for  news of the little minister, but what he told me was only the  gossip of the town; and what I should have known, that Thrums  might never know it, he kept to himself. I suppose he feared to  speak to Gavin, who made several efforts to reclaim him, but  without avail.

Yet Rob's heart opened for a moment to one man, or rather was  forced open by that man. A few days after the meeting at the well,  Rob was bringing the smell of whisky with him down Banker's Close  when he ran against a famous staff, with which the doctor pinned  him to the wall.

"Ay," said the outspoken doctor, looking contemptuously into Rob's  bleary eyes, "so this is what your conversion amounts to? Faugh!  Rob Dow, if you, were half a man the very thought of what Mr.  Dishart has done for you would make you run past the public  houses."

"It's the thocht o' him that sends me running to them," growled  Rob, knocking down the staff. "Let me alane."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded McQueen, hooking him this  time.

"Speir at himsel'; speir at the woman."

"What woman?"

"Take your staff out o' my neck."

"Not till you tell me why you, of all people, are speaking against  the minister."

Torn by a desire for a confidant and loyalty to Gavin, Rob was  already in a fury.

"Say again," he burst forth, "that I was speaking agin the  minister and I'll practise on you what I'm awid to do to her."

"Who is she?"

"Wha's wha?"

"The woman whom the minister--"

"I said nothing about a woman," said poor Rob, alarmed for Gavin.  "Doctor, I'm ready to swear afore a bailie that I never saw them  thegither at the Kaims."

"The Kaims!" exclaimed the doctor suddenly enlightened. "Pooh! you  only mean the Egyptian. Rob, make your mind easy about this. I  know why he met her there."

"Do you ken that she has bewitched him; do you ken I saw him  trying to put his arms round her; do you ken they have a trysting-  place in Caddam wood?"

This came from Rob in a rush, and he would fain have called it all  back.

"I'm drunk, doctor, roaring drunk," he said, hastily, "and it  wasna the minister I saw ava; it was another man."

Nothing more could the doctor draw from Rob, but he had heard  sufficient to smoke some pipes on. Like many who pride themselves  on being recluses, McQueen loved the gossip that came to him  uninvited; indeed, he opened his mouth to it as greedily as any  man in Thrums. He respected Gavin, however, too much to find this  new dish palatable, and so his researches to discover whether  other Auld Lichts shared Rob's fears were conducted with caution.  "Is there no word of your minister's getting a wife yet?" he asked  several, but only got for answers, "There's word o' a Glasgow  leddy's sending him baskets o' flowers," or "He has his een open,  but he's taking his time; ay, he's looking for the blade o' corn  in the stack o' chaff."

This convinced McQueen that the congregation knew nothing of the  Egyptian, but it did not satisfy him, and he made an opportunity  of inviting Gavin into the surgery. It was, to the doctor, the  cosiest nook in his house, but to me and many others a room that  smelled of hearses. On the top of the pipes and tobacco tins that  littered the table there usually lay a death certificate, placed  there deliberately by the doctor to scare his sister, who had a  passion for putting the surgery to rights.

"By the way," McQueen said, after he and Gavin had talked a little  while, "did I ever advise you to smoke?"

"It is your usual form of salutation," Gavin answered, laughing.  "But I don't think you ever supplied me with a reason."

"I daresay not. I am too experienced a doctor to cheapen my  prescriptions in that way. However, here is one good reason. I  have noticed, sir, that at your age a man is either a slave to a  pipe or to a woman. Do you want me to lend you a pipe now?"

"Then I am to understand," asked Gavin, slyly, "that your locket  came into your possession in your pre-smoking days, and that you  merely wear it from habit?"

"Tuts!" answered the doctor, buttoning his coat. "I told you there  was nothing in the locket. If there is, I have forgotten what it  is."

"You are a hopeless old bachelor, I see," said Gavin, unaware that  the doctor was probing him. He was surprised next moment to find  McQueen in the ecstasies of one who has won a rubber.

"Now, then," cried the jubilant doctor, "as you have confessed so  much, tell me all about her. Name and address, please."

"Confess! What have I confessed?"

"It won't do, Mr. Dishart, for even your face betrays you. No, no,  I am an old bird, but I have not forgotten the ways of the  fledgelings. 'Hopeless bachelor,' sir, is a sweetmeat in every  young man's mouth until of a sudden he finds it sour, and that  means the banns. When is it to be?"

"We must find the lady first," said the minister, uncomfortably.

"You tell me, in spite of that face, that you have not fixed on  her?"

"The difficulty, I suppose, would be to persuade her to fix on  me."

"Not a bit of it. But you admit there is some one?"

"Who would have me?"

"You are wriggling out of it. Is it the banker's daughter?"

"No," Gavin cried.

"I hear you have walked up the back wynd with her three times this  week. The town is in a ferment about it."

"She is a great deal in the back wynd."

"Fiddle-de-dee! I am oftener in the back wynd than you, and I  never meet her there."

"That is curious."

"No, it isn't, but never mind. Perhaps you have fallen to Miss  Pennycuick's piano? Did you hear it going as we passed the house?"

"She seems always to be playing on her piano."

"Not she; but you are supposed to be musical, and so when she sees  you from her window she begins to thump. If I am in the school  wynd and hear the piano going, I know you will turn the corner  immediately. However, I am glad to hear it is not Miss Pennycuick.  Then it is the factor at the Spittal's lassie? Well done, sir. You  should arrange to have the wedding at the same time as the old  earl's, which comes off in summer, I believe."

"One foolish marriage is enough in a day, doctor."

"Eh? You call him a fool far marrying a young wife? Well, no doubt  he is, but he would have been a bigger fool to marry an old one.  However, it is not Lord Rintoul we are discussing, but Gavin  Dishart. I suppose you know that the factor's lassie is an  heiress?"

"And, therefore, would scorn me."

"Try her," said the doctor, drily. "Her father and mother, as I  know, married on a ten-pound note. But if I am wrong again, I must  adopt the popular view in Thrums. It is a Glasgow lady after all?  Man, you needn't look indignant at hearing that the people are  discussing your intended. You can no more stop it than a doctor's  orders could keep Lang Tammas out of church. They have discovered  that she sends you flowers twice every week."

"They never reach me," answered Gavin, then remembered the holly  and winced.

"Some," persisted the relentless doctor, "even speak of your  having been seen together; but of course, if she is a Glasgow  lady, that is a mistake."

"Where did they see us?" asked Gavin, with a sudden trouble in his  throat.

"You are shaking," said the doctor, keenly, "like a medical  student at his first operation. But as for the story that you and  the lady have been seen together, I can guess how it arose. Do you  remember that gypsy girl?"

The doctor had begun by addressing the fire, but he suddenly  wheeled round and fired his question in the minister's face.  Gavin, however, did not even blink.

"Why should I have forgotten her?" he replied, coolly.

"Oh, in the stress of other occupations. But it was your getting  the money from her at the Kaims for Nanny that I was to speak of.  Absurd though it seems, I think some dotard must have seen you and  her at the Kaims, and mistaken her for the lady."

McQueen flung himself back in his chair to enjoy this joke.

"Fancy mistaking that woman for a lady!" he said to Gavin, who had  not laughed with him.

"I think Nanny has some justification for considering her a lady,"  the minister said, firmly.

"Well, I grant that. But what made me guffaw was a vision of the  harum-scarum, devil-may-care little Egyptian mistress of an Auld  Licht manse!"

"She is neither harum-scarum nor devil-may-care," Gavin answered,  without heat, for he was no longer a distracted minister. "You  don't understand her as I do."

"No, I seem to understand her differently.

"What do you know of her?"

"That is just it," said the doctor, irritated by Gavin's coolness.  "I know she saved Nanny from the poor-house, but I don't know  where she got the money. I know she can talk fine English when she  chooses, but I don't know where she learned it. I know she heard  that the soldiers were coming to Thrums before they knew of their  destination themselves, but I don't know who told her. You who  understand her can doubtless explain these matters?"

"She offered to explain them to me," Gavin answered, still  unmoved, "but I forbade her."

"Why?"

"It is no business of yours, doctor. Forgive me for saying so."

"In Thrums," replied McQueen, "a minister's business is  everybody's business. I have often wondered who helped her to  escape from the soldiers that night. Did she offer to explain that  to you?"

"She did not."

"Perhaps," said the doctor, sharply, "because it was unnecessary?"

"That was the reason."

"You helped her to escape?"

"I did."

"And you are not ashamed of it?"

"I am not."

"Why were you so anxious to screen her?"

"She saved some of my people from gaol."

"Which was more than they deserved."

"I have always understood that you concealed two of them in your  own stable."

"Maybe I did," the doctor had to allow. "But I took my stick to  them next morning. Besides, they were Thrums folk, while you had  never set eyes on that imp of mischief before."

"I cannot sit here, doctor, and hear her called names," Gavin  said, rising, but McQueen gripped him by the shoulder.

"For pity's sake, sir, don't let us wrangle like a pair of women.  I brought you here to speak my mind to you, and speak it I will. I  warn you, Mr. Dishart, that you are being watched. You have been  seen meeting this lassie in Caddam as well as at the Kaims."

"Let the whole town watch, doctor. I have met her openly."

"And why? Oh, don't make Nanny your excuse."

"I won't. I met her because I love her."

"Are you mad?" cried McQueen. "You speak as if you would marry  her."

"Yes," replied Gavin, determinedly, "and I mean to do it."

The doctor flung up his hands.

"I give you up," he said, raging. "I give you up. Think of your  congregation, man."

"I have been thinking of them, and as soon as I have a right to do  so I shall tell them what I have told you."

"And until you tell them I will keep your madness to myself, for I  warn you that, as soon as they do know, there will be a vacancy in  the Auld Licht kirk of Thrums."

"She is a woman," said Gavin, hesitating, though preparing to go,  "of whom any minister might be proud."

"She is a woman," the doctor roared, "that no congregation would  stand. Oh, if you will go, there is your hat."

Perhaps Gavin's face was whiter as he left the house than when he  entered it, but there was no other change. Those who were watching  him decided that he was looking much as usual, except that his  mouth was shut very firm, from which they concluded that he had  been taking the doctor to task for smoking. They also noted that  he returned to McQueen's house within half a hour after leaving  it, but remained no time.

Some explained this second visit by saying that the minister had  forgotten his cravat, and had gone back for it. What really sent  him back, however, was his conscience. He had said to McQueen that  he helped Babbie to escape from the soldiers because of her  kindness to his people, and he returned to own that it was a lie.

Gavin knocked at the door of the surgery, but entered without  waiting for a response. McQueen was no longer stamping through the  room, red and furious. He had even laid aside his pipe. He was  sitting back in his chair, looking half-mournfully, half-  contemptuously, at something in his palm. His hand closed  instinctively when he heard the door open, but Gavin had seen that  the object was an open locket.

"It was only your reference to the thing," the detected doctor  said, with a grim laugh, "that made me open it. Forty fears ago,  sir, I--Phew! it is forty-two years, and I have not got over it  yet." He closed the locket with a snap. "I hope you have come  back, Dishart, to speak more rationally?"

Gavin told him why he had come back, and the doctor said he was a  fool for his pains.

"Is it useless, Dishart, to make another appeal to you?"

"Quite useless, doctor," Gavin answered, promptly. "My mind is  made up at last."

CHAPTER XXI.   - NIGHT--MARGARET--FLASHING OF A LANTERN.

That evening the little minister sat silently in his parlour.  Darkness came, and with it weavers rose heavy-eyed from their  looms, sleepy children sought their mothers, and the gate of the  field above the manse fell forward to let cows pass to their byre;  the great Bible was produced in many homes, and the ten o'clock  bell clanged its last word to the night. Margaret had allowed the  lamp to burn low. Thinking that her boy slept, she moved softly to  his side and spread her shawl over his knees. He had forgotten  her. The doctor's warnings scarcely troubled him. He was Babbie's  lover. The mystery of her was only a veil hiding her from other  men, and he was looking through it upon the face of his beloved.

It was a night of long ago, but can you not see my dear Margaret  still as she bends over her son? Not twice in many days dared the  minister snatch a moment's sleep from grey morning to midnight,  and, when this did happen, he jumped up by-and-by in shame, to  revile himself for an idler and ask his mother wrathfully why she  had not tumbled him out of his chair? Tonight Margaret was divided  between a desire to let him sleep and a fear of his self-reproach  when he awoke; and so, perhaps, the tear fell that roused him.

"I did not like to waken you," Margaret said, apprehensively. "You  must have been very tired, Gavin?"

"I was not sleeping, mother," he said, slowly. "I was only  thinking."

"Ah, Gavin, you never rise from your loom. It is hardly fair that  your hands should be so full of other people's troubles."

"They only fill one hand, mother; I carry the people's joys in the  other hand, and that keeps me erect, like a woman between her pan  and pitcher. I think the joys have outweighed the sorrows since we  came here."

"It has been all joy to me, Gavin, for you never tell me of the  sorrows. An old woman has no right to be so happy."

"Old woman, mother!" said Gavin. But his indignation was vain.  Margaret was an old woman. I made her old before her time.

"As for these terrible troubles," he went on, "I forget them the  moment I enter the garden and see you at your window. And, maybe,  I keep some of the joys from you as well as the troubles."

Words about Babbie leaped to his mouth, but with an effort he  restrained them. He must not tell his mother of her until Babbie  of her free will had told him all there was to tell.

"I have been a selfish woman, Gavin."

"You selfish, mother!" Gavin said, smiling. "Tell me when you did  not think of others before yourself?"

"Always, Gavin. Has it not been selfishness to hope that you would  never want to bring another mistress to the manse? Do you remember  how angry you used to be in Glasgow when I said that you would  marry some day?"

"I remember," Gavin said, sadly.

"Yes; you used to say, 'Don't speak of such a thing, mother, for  the horrid thought of it is enough to drive all the Hebrew out of  my head.' Was not that lightning just now?"

"I did not see it. What a memory you have, mother, for all the  boyish things I said."

"I can't deny," Margaret admitted with a sigh, "that I liked to  hear you speak in that way, though I knew you would go back on  your word. You see, you have changed already."

"How, mother?" asked Gavin, surprised.

"You said just now that those were boyish speeches. Gavin, I can't  understand the mothers who are glad to see their sons married;  though I had a dozen I believe it would be a wrench to lose one of  them. It would be different with daughters. You are laughing,  Gavin!"

"Yes, at your reference to daughters. Would you not have preferred  me to be a girl?"

"'Deed I would not," answered Margaret, with tremendous  conviction. "Gavin, every woman on earth, be she rich or poor,  good or bad, offers up one prayer about her firstborn, and that  is, 'May he be a boy!'"

"I think you are wrong, mother. The banker's wife told me that  there is nothing for which she thanks the Lord so much as that all  her children are girls."

"May she be forgiven for that, Gavin!" exclaimed Margaret; "though  she maybe did right to put the best face on her humiliation. No,  no, there are many kinds of women in the world, but there never  was one yet that didn't want to begin with a laddie. You can  speculate about a boy so much more than about a girl. Gavin, what  is it a woman thinks about the day her son is born? yes, and the  day before too? She is picturing him a grown man, and a slip of a  lassie taking him from her. Ay, that is where the lassies have  their revenge on the mothers. I remember as if it were this  morning a Harvie fishwife patting your head and asking who was  your sweetheart, and I could never thole the woman again. We were  at the door of the cottage, and I mind I gripped you up in my  arms. You had on a tartan frock with a sash and diamond socks.  When I look back, Gavin, it seems to me that you have shot up from  that frock to manhood in a single hour."

"There are not many mothers like you," Gavin said, laying his hand  fondly on Margaret's shoulder.

"There are many better mothers, but few such sons. It is easily  seen why God could not afford me another. Gavin, I am sure that  was lightning."

"I think it was; but don't be alarmed, mother."

"I am never frightened when you are with me."

"And I always will be with you."

"Ah, if you were married--"

"Do you think," asked Gavin, indignantly, "that it would make any  difference to you?"

Margaret did not answer. She knew what a difference it would make.

"Except," continued Gavin, with a man's obtuseness, "that you  would have a daughter as well as a son to love you and take care  of you."

Margaret could have told him that men give themselves away  needlessly who marry for the sake of their mother, but all she  said was--

"Gavin, I see you can speak more composedly of marrying now than  you spoke a year ago. If I did not know better, I should think a  Thrums young lady had got hold of you."

It was a moment before Gavin replied: then he said, gaily--

"Really, mother, the way the best of women speak of each other is  lamentable. You say I should be better married, and then you take  for granted that every marriageable woman in the neighbourhood is  trying to kidnap me. I am sure you did not take my father by force  in that way."

He did not see that Margaret trembled at the mention of his  father. He never knew that she was many times pining to lay her  head upon his breast and tell him of me. Yet I cannot but believe  that she always shook when Adam Dishart was spoken of between  them. I cannot think that the long-cherishing of the secret which  was hers and mine kept her face steady when that horror suddenly  confronted her as now. Gavin would have suspected much had, he  ever suspected anything.

"I know," Margaret said, courageously, "that you would be better  married; but when it comes to selecting the woman I grow fearful.  O Gavin!" she said, earnestly, "it is an awful thing to marry the  wrong man!"

Here in a moment had she revealed much, though far from all, and  there must have been many such moments between them. But Gavin was  thinking of his own affairs.

"You mean the wrong woman, don't you, mother?" he said, and she  hastened to agree. But it was the wrong man she meant.

"The difficulty, I suppose, is to hit upon the right one?" Gavin  said, blithely.

"To know which is the right one in time," answered Margaret,  solemnly. "But I am saying nothing against the young ladies of  Thrums, Gavin. Though I have scarcely seen them, I know there are  good women among them. Jean says---"

"I believe, mother," Gavin interposed, reproachfully, "that you  have been questioning Jean about them?"

"Just because I was afraid--I mean because I fancied--you might be  taking a liking to one of them."

"And what is Jean's verdict?"

"She says every one of them would jump at you, like a bird at a  berry."

"But the berry cannot be divided. How would Miss Pennycuick please  you, mother?"

"Gavin!" cried Margaret, in consternation, "you don't mean to--But  you are laughing at me again."

"Then there is the banker's daughter?"

"I can't thole her."

"Why, I question if you ever set eyes on her, mother."

"Perhaps not, Gavin; but I have suspected her ever since she  offered to become one of your tract distributors."

"The doctor," said Gavin, not ill-pleased, "was saying that either  of these ladies would suit me."

"What business has he," asked Margaret, vindictively, "to put such  thoughts into your head?"

"But he only did as you are doing. Mother, I see you will never be  satisfied without selecting the woman for me yourself."

"Ay, Gavin," said Margaret, earnestly; "and I question if I should  be satisfied even then. But I am sure I should be a better guide  to you than Dr. McQueen is."

"I am convinced of that. But I wonder what sort of woman would  content you?"

"Whoever pleased you, Gavin, would content me," Margaret ventured  to maintain. "You would only take to a clever woman."

"She must be nearly as clever as you, mother."

"Hoots, Gavin," said Margaret, smiling, "I'm not to be caught with  chaff. I am a stupid, ignorant woman."

"Then I must look out for a stupid, ignorant woman, for that seems  to be the kind I like," answered Gavin, of whom I may confess here  something that has to be told sooner or later. It is this: he  never realised that Babbie was a great deal cleverer than himself.  Forgive him, you who read, if you have any tolerance for the  creature, man.

"She will be terribly learned in languages," pursued Margaret, "so  that she may follow you in your studies, as I have never been able  to do."

"Your face has helped me more than Hebrew, mother," replied Gavin.  "I will give her no marks for languages."

"At any rate," Margaret insisted, "she must be a grand  housekeeper, and very thrifty."

"As for that," Gavin said, faltering a little, "one can't expect  it of a mere girl."

"I should expect it," maintained his mother.

"No, no; but she would have you," said Gavin, happily, "to teach  her housekeeping."

"It would be a pleasant occupation to me, that," Margaret  admitted. "And she would soon learn; she would be so proud of her  position as mistress of a manse."

"Perhaps," Gavin said, doubtfully. He had no doubt on the subject  in his college days.

"And we can take for granted," continued his mother, "that she is  a lassie of fine character."

"Of course," said Gavin, holding his head high, as if he thought  the doctor might be watching him.

"I have thought," Margaret went on, "that there was a great deal  of wisdom in what you said at that last marriage in the manse, the  one where, you remember, the best man and the bridesmaid joined  hands instead of the bride and bridegroom."

"What did I say?" asked the little minister, with misgivings.

"That there was great danger when people married out of their own  rank of life."

"Oh--ah--well, of course, that would depend on circumstances."

"They were wise words, Gavin. There was the sermon, too, that you  preached a month or two ago against marrying into other  denominations. Jean told me that it greatly impressed the  congregation. It is a sad sight, as you said, to see an Auld Licht  lassie changing her faith because her man belongs to the U. P.'s."

"Did I say that?"

"You did, and it so struck Jean that she told me she would rather  be an old maid for life, 'the which,' she said, 'is a dismal  prospect,' than marry out of the Auld Licht kirk."

"It is harmless," Gavin answered, going to the window. He started  back next moment, and crying, "Don't look out, mother," hastily  pulled down the blind.

"Why, Gavin," Margaret said in fear, "you look as if it had struck  you."

"Oh, no," Gavin answered, with a forced laugh, and he lit her lamp  for her.

But it had struck him, though it was not lightning. It was the  flashing of a lantern against the window to attract his attention,  and the holder of the lantern was Babbie.

"Good-night, mother."

"Good-night, Gavin. Don't sit up any later." Tammas, though he is  so obstinate, has a love for you passing the love of woman. These  were her words. Jean is more sentimental than you might think."

"I wish he would show his love," said Gavin, "by contradicting me  less frequently."

"You have Rob Dow to weigh against him."

"No; I cannot make out what has come over Rob lately. He is  drinking heavily again, and avoiding me. The lightning is becoming  very vivid."

"Yes, and I hear no thunder. There is another thing, Gavin. I am  one of those that like to sit at home, but if you had a wife she  would visit the congregation. A truly religious wife would be a  great help to you."

"Religious," Gavin repeated slowly. "Yes, but some people are  religious without speaking of it. If a woman is good she is  religious. A good woman who has been, let us say, foolishly  brought up, only needs to be shown the right way to tread it.  Mother, I question if any man, minister or layman, ever yet fell  in love because the woman was thrifty, or clever, or went to  church twice on Sabbath."

"I believe that is true," Margaret said, "and I would not have it  otherwise. But it is an awful thing, Gavin, as you said from the  pulpit two weeks ago, to worship only at a beautiful face."

"You think too much about what I say in the pulpit, mother," Gavin  said, with a sigh, "though of course a man who fell in love merely  with a face would be a contemptible creature. Yet I see that women  do not understand how beauty affects a man."

"Yes, yes, my boy--oh, indeed, they do," said Margaret, who on  some matters knew far more than her son.

Twelve o'clock struck, and she rose to go to bed, alarmed lest she  should not waken early in the morning. "But I am afraid I shan't  sleep," she said, "if that lightning continues."

"It is harmless," Gavin answered, going to the window. He started  back next moment, and crying, "Don't look out, mother," hastily  pulled down the blind.

"Why, Gavin," Margaret said in fear, "you look as if it had struck  you."

"Oh, no," Gavin answered, with a forced laugh, and he lit her lamp  for her.

But it had struck him, though it was not lightning. It was the  flashing of a lantern against the window to attract his attention,  and the holder of the lantern was Babbie.

"Good-night, mother."

"Good-night, Gavin. Don't sit up any later."

CHAPTER XXII.   - LOVERS.

Only something terrible, Gavin thought, could have brought Babbie  to him at such an hour; yet when he left his mother's room it was  to stand motionless on the stair, waiting for a silence in the  manse that would not come. A house is never still in darkness to  those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant  chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the  latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man woke in the  night.

Now Margaret slept. Two hours earlier, Jean, sitting on the salt-  bucket, had read the chapter with which she always sent herself to  bed. In honour of the little minister she had begun her Bible  afresh when he came to Thrums, and was progressing through it, a  chapter at night, sighing, perhaps, on washing days at a long  chapter, such as Exodus twelfth, but never making two of it. The  kitchen wag-at-the-wall clock was telling every room in the house  that she had neglected to shut her door. As Gavin felt his way  down the dark stair, awakening it into protest at every step, he  had a glimpse of the pendulum's shadow running back and forward on  the hearth; he started back from another shadow on the lobby wall,  and then seeing it start too, knew it for his own. He opened the  door and passed out unobserved; it was as if the sounds and  shadows that filled the manse were too occupied with their game to  mind an interloper.

"Is that you?" he said to a bush, for the garden was in semi-  darkness. Then the lantern's flash met him, and he saw the  Egyptian in the summer-seat.

"At last!" she said, reproachfully. "Evidently a lantern is a poor  door-bell."

"What is it?" Gavin asked, in suppressed excitement, for the least  he expected to hear was that she was again being pursued for her  share in the riot. The tremor in his voice surprised her into  silence, and he thought she faltered because what she had to tell  him was so woeful. So, in the darkness of the summer-seat, he  kissed her, and she might have known that with that kiss the  little minister was hers forever.

Now Babbie had been kissed before, but never thus, and she turned  from Gavin, and would have liked to be alone, for she had begun to  know what love was, and the flash that revealed it to her laid  bare her own shame, so that her impulse was to hide herself from  her lover. But of all this Gavin was unconscious, and he repeated  his question. The lantern was swaying in her hand, and when she  turned fearfully to him its light fell on his face, and she saw  how alarmed he was.

"I am going away back to Nanny's," she said suddenly, and rose  cowed, but he took her hand and held her.

"Babbie," he said, huskily, "tell me what has happened to bring  you here at this hour."

She sought to pull her hand from him, but could not.

"How you are trembling!" he whispered. "Babbie," he cried,  "something terrible has happened to you, but do not fear. Tell me  what it is, and then--then I will take you to my mother: yes, I  will take you now."

The Egyptian would have given all she had in the world to be able  to fly from him then, that he might never know her as she was, but  it could not be, and so she spoke out remorselessly. If her voice  had become hard, it was a new-born scorn of herself that made it  so.

"You are needlessly alarmed," she said; "I am not at all the kind  of person who deserves sympathy or expects it. There is nothing  wrong. I am staying with Nanny over-night, and only came to Thrums  to amuse myself. I chased your policeman down the Roods with my  lantern, and then came here to amuse myself with you. That is  all."

"It was nothing but a love of mischief that brought you here?"  Gavin asked, sternly, after an unpleasant pause.

"Nothing," the Egyptian answered, recklessly.

"I could not have believed this of you," the minister said; "I am  ashamed of you."

"I thought," Babbie retorted, trying to speak lightly until she  could get away from him, "that you would be glad to see me. Your  last words in Caddam seemed to justify that idea."

"I am very sorry to see you," he answered, reproachfully.

"Then I will go away at one," she said, stepping out of the  summer-seat.

"Yes," he replied, "you must go at once."

"Then I won't," she said, turning back defiantly. "I know what you  are to say: that the Thrums people would be shocked if they knew I  was here; as if I cared what the Thrums people think of me."

"I care what they think of you," Gavin said, as if that were  decisive, "and I tell you I will not allow you to repeat this  freak."

"You 'will not allow me,'" echoed Babbie, almost enjoying herself,  despite her sudden loss of self-respect,

"I will not," Gavin said, resolutely. "Henceforth you must do as I  think fit."

"Since when have you taken command of me?" demanded Babbie.

"Since a minute ago," Gavin replied, "when you let me kiss you."

"Let you!" exclaimed Babbie, now justly incensed. "You did it  yourself. I was very angry."

"No, you were not."

"I am not allowed to say that even?" asked the Egyptian. "Tell me  something I may say, then, and I will repeat it after you."

"I have something to say to you," Gavin told her, after a moment's  reflection; "yes, and there is something I should like to hear you  repeat after me, but not to-night."

"I don't want to hear what it is," Babbie said, quickly, but she  knew what it was, and even then, despite the new pain at her  heart, her bosom swelled with pride because this man still loved  her. Now she wanted to run away with his love for her before he  could take it from her, and then realising that this parting must  be forever, a great desire filled her to hear him put that kiss  into words, and she said, faltering:

"You can tell me what it is if you like."

"Not to-night," said Gavin.

"To-night, if at all," the gypsy almost entreated.

"To-morrow, at Nanny's," answered Gavin, decisively: and this time  he remembered without dismay that the morrow was the Sabbath.

In the fairy tale the beast suddenly drops his skin and is a  prince, and I believed it seemed to Babbie that some such change  had come over this man, her plaything.

"Your lantern is shining on my mother's window," were the words  that woke her from this discovery, and then she found herself  yielding the lantern to him. She became conscious vaguely that a  corresponding change was taking place in herself.

"You spoke of taking me to your mother," she said, bitterly.

"Yes," he answered at once, "to-morrow"; but she shook her head,  knowing that to-morrow he would be wiser.

"Give me the lantern," she said, in a low voice, "I am going back  to Nanny's now."

"Yes," he said, "we must set out now, but I can carry the  lantern."

"You are not coming with me!" she exclaimed, shaking herself free  of his hand.

"I am coming," he replied, calmly, though he was not calm. "Take  my arm, Babbie."

She made a last effort to free herself from bondage, crying  passionately, "I will not let you come."

"When I say I am coming," Gavin answered between his teeth, "I  mean that I am coming, and so let that be an end of this folly.  Take my arm."

"I think I hate you," she said, retreating from him.

"Take my arm," he repeated, and, though her breast was rising  rebelliously, she did as he ordered, and so he escorted her from  the garden. At the foot of the field she stopped, and thought to  frighten him by saying, "What would the people say if they saw you  with me now?"

"It does not much matter what they would say," he answered, still  keeping his teeth together as if doubtful of their courage. "As  for what they would do, that is certain; they would put me out of  my church."

"And it is dear to you?"

"Dearer than life."

"You told me long ago that your mother's heart would break if----"

"Yes, I am sure it would."

They had begun to climb the fields, but she stopped him with a  jerk.

"Go back, Mr. Dishart," she implored, clutching his arm with both  hands. "You make me very unhappy for no purpose. Oh, why should  you risk so much for me?"

"I cannot have you wandering here alone at midnight," Gavin  answered, gently.

"That is nothing to me," she said, eagerly, but no longer  resenting his air of proprietorship.

"You will never do it again if I can prevent it."

"But you cannot," she said, sadly. "Oh, yes, you can, Mr. Dishart.  If you will turn back now I shall promise never to do anything  again without first asking myself whether it would seem right to  you. I know I acted very wrongly to-night."

"Only thoughtlessly," he said.

"Then have pity on me," she besought him, "and go back. If I have  only been thoughtless, how can you punish me thus? Mr. Dishart,"  she entreated, her voice breaking, "if you were to suffer for this  folly of mine, do you think I could live?"

"We are in God's hands, dear," he answered, firmly, and he again  drew her arm to him. So they climbed the first field, and were  almost at the hill before either spoke again.

"Stop," Babbie whispered, crouching as she spoke; "I see some one  crossing the hill."

"I have seen him for some time," Gavin answered, quietly; "but I  am doing no wrong, and I will not hide."

The Egyptian had to walk on with him, and I suppose she did not  think the less of him for that. Yet she said, warningly--

"If he sees you, all Thrums will be in an uproar before morning."

"I cannot help that," Gavin replied. "It is the will of God."

"To ruin you for my sins?"

"If He thinks fit."

The figure drew nearer, and with every step Babbie's distress  doubled.

"We are walking straight to him," she whispered. "I implore you to  wait here until he passes, if not for your own sake, for your  mother's."

At that he wavered, and she heard his teeth sliding against each  other, as if he could no longer clench them.

"But, no," he said moving on again, "I will not be a skulker from  any man. If it be God's wish that I should suffer for this, I must  suffer."

"Oh, why," cried Babbie, beating her hands together in grief,  "should you suffer for me?"

"You are mine," Gavin answered. Babbie gasped.

"And if you act foolishly," he continued, "it is right that I  should bear the brunt of it. No, I will not let you go on alone;  you are not fit to be alone. You need some one to watch over you  and care for you and love you, and, if need be, to suffer with  you."

"Turn back, dear, before he sees us."

"He has seen us."

Yes, I had seen them, for the figure on the hill was no other than  the dominie of Glen Quharity. The park gate clicked as it swung  to, and I looked up and saw Gavin and the Egyptian. My eyes should  have found them sooner, but it was to gaze upon Margaret's home,  while no one saw me, that I had trudged into Thrums so late, and  by that time, I suppose, my eyes were of little service for seeing  through. Yet, when I knew that of these two people suddenly beside  me on the hill one was the little minister and the other a strange  woman, I fell back from their side with dread before I could step  forward and cry "Gavin!"

"I am Mr. Dishart," he answered, with a composure that would not  have served him for another sentence. He was more excited than I,  for the "Gavin" fell harmlessly on him, while I had no sooner  uttered it than there rushed through me the shame of being false  to Margaret. It was the only time in my life that I for-got her in  him, though he has ever stood next to her in my regard.

I looked from Gavin to the gypsy woman, and again from her to him,  and she began to tell a lie in his interest. But she got no  farther than "I met Mr. Dis-bart accid--" when she stopped,  ashamed. It was reverence for Gavin that checked the lie. Not  every man has had such a compliment paid him.

"It is natural," Gavin said, slowly, "that you, sir, should wonder  why I am here with this woman at such an hour, and you may know me  so little as to think ill of me for it."

I did not answer, and he misunderstood my silence.

"No," he continued, in a harder voice, as if I had asked him a  question, "I will explain nothing to you. You are not my judge. If  you would do me harm, sir, you have it in your power."

It was with these cruel words that Gavin addressed me. He did not  know how cruel they were. The Egyptian, I think, must have seen  that his suspicions hurt me, for she said, softly, with a look of  appeal in her eyes--

"You are the schoolmaster in Glen Quharity? Then you will perhaps  save Mr. Dishart the trouble of coming farther by showing me the  way to old Nanny Webster's house at Windyghoul?"

"I have to pass the house at any rate," I answered eagerly, and  she came quickly to my side.

I knew, though in the darkness I could see but vaguely, that Gavin  was holding his head high and waiting for me to say my worst. I  had not told him that I dared think no evil of him, and he still  suspected me. Now I would not trust myself to speak lest I should  betray Margaret, and yet I wanted him to know that base doubts  about him could never find a shelter in me. I am a timid man who  long ago lost the glory of my life by it, and I was again timid  when I sought to let Gavin see that my faith in him was unshaken.  I lifted my bonnet to the gypsy, and asked her to take my arm. It  was done clumsily, I cannot doubt, but he read my meaning and held  out his hand to me. I had not touched it since he was three years  old, and I trembled too much to give it the grasp I owed it. He  and I parted without a word, but to the Egyptian he said, "To-  morrow, dear, I will see you at Nanny's," and he was to kiss her,  but I pulled her a step farther from him, and she put her hands  over her face, crying, "No, no!"

If I asked her some questions between the hill and Windyghoul you  must not blame me, for this was my affair as well as theirs. She  did not answer me; I know now that she did not hear me. But at the  mud house she looked abruptly into my face, and said--

"You love him, too!"

I trudged to the school-house with these words for company, and it  was less her discovery than her confession that tortured me. How  much I slept that night you may guess.

CHAPTER XXIII.   - CONTAINS A BIRTH, WHICH IS SUFFICIENT FOR ONE CHAPTER.

"The kirk bell will soon be ringing," Nanny said on the following  morning, as she placed herself carefully on a stool, one hand  holding her Bible and the other wandering complacently over her  aged merino gown. "Ay, lassie, though you're only an Egyptian I  would hae ta'en you wi' me to hear Mr. Duthie, but it's speiring  ower muckle o' a woman to expect her to gang to the kirk in her  ilka day claethes."

The Babbie of yesterday would have laughed at this, but the new  Babbie sighed.

"I wonder you don't go to Mr. Dishart's church now. Nanny," she  said, gently. "I am sure you prefer him."

"Babbie, Babbie," exclaimed Nanny, with spirit, "may I never be so  far left to mysel' as to change my kirk just because I like  another minister better! It's easy seen, lassie, that you ken  little o' religious questions."

"Very little," Babbie admitted, sadly.

"But dinna ba so waeful about it," the old woman continued,  kindly, "for that's no nane like you. Ay, and if you see muckle  mair o' Mr. Dishart he'll soon cure your ignorance."

"I shall not see much more of him," Babbie answered, with averted  head.

"The like o' you couldna expect it," Nanny said, simply, whereupon  Babbie went to the window. "I had better be stepping," Nanny said,  rising, "for I am aye late unless I'm on the hill by the time the  bell begins. Ay, Babbie, I'm doubting my merino's no sair in the  fashion?"

She looked down at her dress half despondently, and yet with some  pride.

"It was fowerpence the yard, and no less," she went on, fondling  the worn merino, "when we bocht it at Sam'l Curr's. Ay, but it has  been turned sax times since syne."

She sighed, and Babbie came to her and put her arms round her,  saying, "Nanny, you are a dear."

"I'm a gey auld-farrant-looking dear, I doubt," said Nanny,  ruefully.

"Now, Nanny," rejoined Babbie, "you are just wanting me to flatter  you. You know the merino looks very nice."

"It's a guid merino yet," admitted the old woman, "but, oh,  Babbie, what does the material matter if the cut isna fashionable?  It's fine, isn't it, to be in the fashion?"

She spoke so wistfully that, instead of smiling, Babbie kissed  her.

"I am afraid to lay hand on the merino, Nanny, but give me off  your bonnet and I'll make it ten years younger in as many  minutes."

"Could you?" asked Nanny, eagerly, unloosening her bonnet-strings.  "Mercy on me!" she had to add; "to think about altering bonnets on  the Sabbath-day! Lassie, how could you propose sic a thing?"

"Forgive me, Nanny," Babbie replied, so meekly that the old woman  looked at her curiously.

"I dinna understand what has come ower you," she said. "There's an  unca difference in you since last nicht. I used to think you were  mair like a bird than a lassie, but you've lost a' your daft  capers o' singing and lauching, and I take ill wi't. Twa or three  times I've catched you greeting. Babbie, what has come ower you?"

"Nothing, Nanny. I think I hear the bell."

Down in Thrums two kirk-officers had let their bells loose, waking  echoes in Windyghoul as one dog in country parts sets all the  others barking, but Nanny did not hurry off to church. Such a  surprising notion had filled her head suddenly that she even  forgot to hold her dress off the floor.

"Babbie," she cried, in consternation, "dinna tell me you've  gotten ower fond o' Mr. Dishart."

"The like of me, Nanny!" the gypsy answered, with affected  raillery, but there was a tear in her eye.

"It would be a wild, presumptious thing," Nanny said, "and him a  grand minister, but--"

Babbie tried to look her in the face, but failed, and then all at  once there came back to Nanny the days when she and her lover  wandered the hill together.

"Ah, my dawtie," she cried, so tenderly, "what does it matter wha  he is when you canna help it!"

Two frail arms went round the Egyptian, and Babbie rested her head  on the old woman's breast. But do you think it could have happened  had not Nanny loved a weaver two-score years before?

And now Nanny has set off for church and Babbie is alone in the  mud house. Some will pity her not at all, this girl who was a  dozen women in the hour, and all made of impulses that would  scarce stand still to be photographed. To attempt to picture her  at any time until now would have been like chasing a spirit that  changes to something else as your arms clasp it; yet she has  always seemed a pathetic little figure to me. If I understand  Babbie at all, it is, I think, because I loved Margaret, the only  woman I have ever known well, and one whose nature was not, like  the Egyptian's, complex, but most simple, as if God had told her  only to be good. Throughout my life since she came into it she has  been to me a glass in which many things are revealed that I could  not have learned save through her, and something of all womankind,  even of bewildering Babbie, I seem to know because I knew  Margaret.

No woman is so bad but we may rejoice when her heart thrills to  love, for then God has her by the hand. There is no love but this.  She may dream of what love is, but it is only of a sudden that she  knows. Babbie, who was without a guide from her baby days, had  dreamed but little of it, hearing its name given to another thing.  She had been born wild and known no home; no one had touched her  heart except to strike it, she had been educated, but never tamed;  her life had been thrown strangely among those who were great in  the world's possessions, but she was not of them. Her soul was in  such darkness that she had never seen it; she would have danced  away cynically from the belief that there is such a thing, and now  all at once she had passed from disbelief to knowledge. Is not  love God's doing? To Gavin He had given something of Himself, and  the moment she saw it the flash lit her own soul.

It was but little of his Master that was in Gavin, but far smaller  things have changed the current of human lives; the spider's  thread that strikes our brow on a country road may do that. Yet  this I will say, though I have no wish to cast the little minister  on my pages larger than he was, that he had some heroic hours in  Thrums, of which one was when Babbie learned to love him. Until  the moment when he kissed her she had only conceived him a quaint  fellow whose life was a string of Sundays, but behold what she saw  in him now. Evidently to his noble mind her mystery was only some  misfortune, not of her making, and his was to be the part of  leading her away from it into the happiness of the open life. He  did not doubt her, for he loved, and to doubt is to dip love in  the mire. She had been given to him by God, and he was so rich in  her possession that the responsibility attached to the gift was  not grievous. She was his, and no mortal man could part them.  Those who looked askance at her were looking askance at him; in so  far as she was wayward and wild, he was those things; so long as  she remained strange to religion, the blame lay on him.

All this Babbie read in the Gavin of the past night, and to her it  was the book of love. What things she had known, said and done in  that holy name! How shamefully have we all besmirched it! She had  only known it as the most selfish of the passions, a brittle image  that men consulted because it could only answer in the words they  gave it to say. But here was a man to whom love was something  better than his own desires leering on a pedestal. Such love as  Babbie had seen hitherto made strong men weak, but this was a love  that made a weak man strong. All her life, strength had been her  idol, and the weakness that bent to her cajolery her scorn. But  only now was it revealed to her that strength, instead of being  the lusty child of passions, grows by grappling with and throwing  them.

So Babbie loved the little minister for the best that she had ever  seen in man. I shall be told that she thought far more of him than  he deserved, forgetting the mean in the worthy: but who that has  had a glimpse of heaven will care to let his mind dwell henceforth  on earth? Love, it is said, is blind, but love is not blind. It is  an extra eye, which shows us what is most worthy of regard. To see  the best is to see most clearly, and it is the lover's privilege.

Down in the Auld Licht kirk that forenoon Gavin preached a sermon  in praise of Woman, and up in the mudhouse in Windyghoul Babbie  sat alone. But it was the Sabbath day to her: the first Sabbath in  her life. Her discovery had frozen her mind for a time, so that  she could only stare at it with eyes that would not shut; but that  had been in the night. Already her love seemed a thing of years,  for it was as old as herself, as old as the new Babbie. It was  such a dear delight that she clasped it to her, and exulted over  it because it was hers, and then she cried over it because she  must give it up.

For Babbie must only look at this love and then turn from it. My  heart aches for the little Egyptian, but the Promised Land would  have remained invisible to her had she not realized that it was  only for others. That was the condition of her seeing.

CHAPTER XXIV.   - NEW WORLD, AND THE WOMAN WHO MAY NOT DWELL THEREIN.

Up here in the glen school-house after my pupils have straggled  home, there comes to me at times, and so sudden that it may be  while I am infusing my tea, a hot desire to write great books.  Perhaps an hour afterwards I rise, beaten, from my desk, flinging  all I have written into the fire (yet rescuing some of it on  second thought), and curse myself as an ingle-nook man, for I see  that one can only paint what he himself has felt, and in my  passion I wish to have all the vices, even to being an impious  man, that I may describe them better. For this may I be pardoned.  It comes to nothing in the end, save that my tea is brackish.

Yet though my solitary life in the glen is cheating me of many  experiences, more helpful to a writer than to a Christian, it has  not been so tame but that I can understand why Babbie cried when  she went into Nanny's garden and saw the new world. Let no one who  loves be called altogether unhappy. Even love unreturned has its  rainbow, and Babbie knew that Gavin loved her. Yet she stood in  woe among the stiff berry bushes, as one who stretches forth her  hands to Love and sees him looking for her, and knows she must  shrink from the arms she would lie in, and only call to him in a  voice he cannot hear. This is not a love that is always bitter. It  grows sweet with age. But could that dry the tears of the little  Egyptian, who had only been a woman for a day?

Much was still dark to her. Of one obstacle that must keep her and  Gavin ever apart she knew, and he did not; but had it been removed  she would have given herself to him humbly, not in her own  longing, but because he wanted her. "Behold what I am," she could  have said to him then, and left the rest to him, believing that  her unworthiness would not drag him down, it would lose itself so  readily in his strength. That Thrums could rise against such a man  if he defied it, she did not believe; but she was to learn the  truth presently from a child.

To most of us, I suppose, has come some shock that was to make us  different men from that hour, and yet, how many days elapsed  before something of the man we had been leapt up in us? Babbie  thought she had buried her old impulsiveness, and then remembering  that from the top of the field she might see Gavin returning from  church, she hastened to the hill to look upon him from a distance.  Before she reached the gate where I had met her and him, however,  she stopped, distressed at her selfishness, and asked bitterly,  "Why am I so different from other women; why should what is so  easy to them be so hard to me?"

"Gavin, my beloved!" the Egyptian cried in her agony, and the wind  caught her words and flung them in the air, making sport of her.

She wandered westward over the bleak hill, and by-and-by came to a  great slab called the Standing Stone, on which children often sit  and muse until they see gay ladies riding by on palfreys--a kind  of horse--and knights in glittering armour, and goblins, and fiery  dragons, and other wonders now extinct, of which bare-legged  laddies dream, as well as boys in socks. The Standing Stone is in  the dyke that separates the hill from a fir wood, and it is the  fairy-book of Thrums. If you would be a knight yourself, you must  sit on it and whisper to it your desire.

Babbie came to the Standing Stone, and there was a little boy  astride it. His hair stood up through holes in his bonnet, and he  was very ragged and miserable.

"Why are you crying, little boy?" Babbie asked him, gently; but he  did not look up, and the tongue was strange to him.

"How are you greeting so sair?" she asked.

"I'm no greeting very sair," he answered, turning his head from  her that a woman might not see his tears. "I'm no greeting so sair  but what I grat sairer when my mither died."

"When did she die?" Babbie inquired.

"Lang syne," he answered, still with averted face.

"What is your name?"

"Micah is my name. Rob Dow's my father."

"And have you no brothers nor sisters?" asked Babbie, with a  fellow-feeling for him.

"No, juist my father," he said.

"You should be the better laddie to him then. Did your mither no  tell you to be that afore she died?"

"Ay," he answered, "she telled me ay to hide the bottle frae him  when I could get haed o't. She took me into the bed to make me  promise that, and syne she died."

"Does your father drina?"

"He hauds mair than ony other man in Thrums," Micah replied,  almost proudly.

"And he strikes you?" Babbie asked, compassionately.

"That's a lie," retorted the boy, fiercely. "Leastwise, he doesna  strike me except when he's mortal, and syne I can jouk him."

"What are you doing there?"

"I'm wishing. It's a wishing stane."

"You are wishing your father wouldna drink."

"No, I'm no," answered Micah. "There was a lang time he didna  drink, but the woman has sent him to it again. It's about her I'm  wishing. I'm wishing she was in hell."

"What woman is it?" asked Babbie, shuddering.

"I dinna ken," Micah said, "but she's an ill ane."

"Did you never see her at your father's house?"

"Na; if he could get grip o' her he would break her ower his knee.  I hearken to him saying that, when he's wild. He says she should  be burned for a witch."

"But if he hates her," asked Babbie, "how can she have sic power  ower him?"

"It's no him that she has haud o'," replied Micah. still looking  away from her.

"Wha is it then?"

"It's Mr. Dishart."

Babbie was struck as if by an arrow from the wood. It was so  unexpected that she gave a cry, and then for the first time Micah  looked at her.

"How should that send your father to the drink?" she asked, with  an effort.

"Because my father's michty fond o' him," answered Micah, staring  strangely at her; "and when the folk ken about the woman, they'll  stane the minister out o' Thrums."

The wood faded for a moment from the Egyptian's sight. When it  came back, the boy had slid off the Standing Stone and was  stealing away.

"Why do you run frae me?" Babbie asked, pathetically.

"I'm fleid at you," he gasped, coming to a standstill at a safe  distance: "you're the woman!"

Babbie cowered before her little judge, and he drew nearer her  slowly.

"What makes you think that?" she said.

It was a curious time for Babbie's beauty to be paid its most  princely compliment.

"Because you're so bonny," Micah whispered across the dyke. Her  tears gave him courage. "You might gang awa," he entreated. "If  you kent what a differ Mr. Dishart made in my father till you  came, you would maybe gang awa. When lie's roaring fou I have to  sleep in the wood, and it's awful cauld. I'm doubting he'll kill  me, woman, if you dinna gang awa."

Poor Babbie put her hand to her heart, but the innocent lad  continued mercilessly--

"If ony shame comes to the minister, his auld mither'll die. How  have you sic an ill will at the minister?"

Babbie held up her hands like a supplicant.

"I'll gie you my rabbit." Micah said, "if you'll gang awa. I've  juist the ane." She shook her head, and, misunderstanding her, he  cried, with his knuckles in his eye, "I'll gie you them baith,  though I'm michty sweer to part wi' Spotty."

Then at last Babbie found her voice.

"Keep your rabbits, laddie," she said, "and greet no more. I'm  gaen awa."

"And you'll never come back no more a' your life?" pleaded Micah.

"Never no more a' my life," repeated Babbie.

"And ye'll leave the minister alane for ever and ever?"

"For ever and ever."

Micah rubbed his face dry, and said, "Will you let me stand on the  Standing Stane and watch you gaen awa for ever and ever?"

At that a sob broke from Babbie's heart, and looking at her  doubtfully Micah said--

"Maybe you're gey ill for what you've done?"

"Ay," Babbie answered, "I'm gey ill for what I've done."

A minute passed, and in her anguish she did not know that still  she was standing at the dyke. Micah's voice roused her:

"You said you would gang awa, and you're no gaen,"

Then Babbie went away. The boy watched her across the hill. He  climbed the Standing Stone and gazed after her until she was but a  coloured ribbon among the broom. When she disappeared into  Windyghoul he ran home, joyfully, and told his father what a good  day's work he had done. Rob struck him for a fool for taking a  gypsy's word, and warned him against speaking of the woman in  Thrums.

But though Dow believed that Gavin continued to meet the Egyptian  secretly, he was wrong. A sum of money for Nanny was sent to the  minister, but he could guess only from whom it came. In vain did  he search for Babbie. Some months passed and he gave up the  search, persuaded that he should see her no more. He went about  his duties with a drawn face that made many folk uneasy when it  was stern, and pained them when it tried to smile. But to  Margaret, though the effort was terrible, he was as he had ever  been, and so no thought of a woman crossed her loving breast.

CHAPTER XXV.   - BEGINNING OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.

I can tell still how the whole of the glen was engaged about the  hour of noon on the fourth of August month; a day to be among the  last forgotten by any of us, though it began as quietly as a  roaring March. At the Spittal, between which and Thrums this is a  halfway house, were gathered two hundred men in kilts, and many  gentry from the neighboring glens, to celebrate the earl's  marriage, which was to take place on the morrow, and thither, too,  had gone many of my pupils to gather gossip, at which girls of six  are trustier hands than boys of twelve. Those of us, however, who  were neither children nor of gentle blood, remained at home, the  farmers more taken up with the want of rain, now become a  calamity, than with an old man's wedding, and their women-folk  wringing their hands for rain also, yet finding time to marvel at  the marriage's taking place at the Spittal instead of in England,  of which the ignorant spoke vaguely as an estate of the bride's.

For my own part I could talk of the disastrous drought with Waster  Lunny as I walked over his parched fields, but I had not such  cause as he to brood upon it by day and night; and the ins and  outs of the earl's marriage were for discussing at a tea-table,  where there were women to help one to conclusions, rather than for  the reflections of a solitary dominie, who had seen neither bride  nor bridegroom. So it must be confessed that when I might have  been regarding the sky moodily, or at the Spittal, where a free  table that day invited all, I was sitting in the school-house,  heeling my left boot, on which I have always been a little hard.

I made small speed, not through lack of craft, but because one can  no more drive in tackets properly than take cities unless he gives  his whole mind to it; and half of mine was at the Auld Licht  manse. Since our meeting six months earlier on the hill I had not  seen Gavin, but I had heard much of him, and of a kind to trouble  me.

"I saw nothing queer about Mr. Dishart," was Waster Lunny's  frequent story, "till I hearkened to Elspeth speaking about it to  the lasses (for I'm the last Elspeth would tell anything to,  though I'm her man), and syne I minded I had been noticing it for  months. Elspeth says," he would go on, for he could no more  forbear quoting his wife than complaining of her, "that the  minister'll listen to you nowadays wi' his een glaring at you as  if he had a perfectly passionate interest in what you were telling  him (though it may be only about a hen wi' the croup), and then,  after all, he hasna heard a sylib. Ay, I listened to Elspeth  saying that, when she thocht I was at the byre, and yet, would you  believe it, when I says to her after lousing times, 'I've been  noticing of late that the minister loses what a body tells him,'  all she answers is 'Havers.' Tod, but women's provoking."

"I allow," Birse said, "that on the first Sabbath o' June month,  and again on the third Sabbath, he poured out the Word grandly,  but I've ta'en note this curran Sabbaths that if he's no michty  magnificent he's michty poor. There's something damming up his  mind, and when he gets by it he's a roaring water, but when he  doesna he's a despizable trickle. The folk thinks it's a woman  that's getting in his way, but dinna tell me that about sic a  scholar; I tell you he would gang ower a toon o' women like a  loaded cart ower new-laid stanes."

Wearyworld hobbled after me up the Roods one day, pelting me with  remarks, though I was doing my best to get away from him. "Even  Rob Dow sees there's something come ower the minister," he bawled,  "for Rob's fou ilka Sabbath now. Ay, but this I will say for Mr.  Dishart, that he aye gies me a civil word," I thought I had left  the policeman behind with this, but next minute he roared, "And  whatever is the matter wi' him it has made him kindlier to me than  ever." He must have taken the short cut through Lunan's close, for  at the top of the Roods his voice again made up on me. "Dagone  you, for a cruel pack to put your fingers to your lugs ilka time I  open my mouth."

As for Waster Lunny's daughter Easie, who got her schooling free  for redding up the school-house and breaking my furniture, she  would never have been off the gossip about the minister, for she  was her mother in miniature, with a tongue that ran like a pump  after the pans are full, not for use but for the mere pleasure of  spilling.

On that awful fourth of August I not only had all this confused  talk in my head but reason for jumping my mind between it and the  Egyptian (as if to catch them together unawares), and I was like  one who, with the mechanism of a watch jumbled in his hand, could  set it going if he had the art.

Of the gypsy I knew nothing save what I had seen that night, yet  what more was there to learn? I was aware that she loved Gavin and  that he loved her. A moment had shown it to me. Now with the Auld  Lichts, I have the smith's acquaintance with his irons, and so I  could not believe that they would suffer their minister to marry a  vagrant. Had it not been for this knowledge, which made me fearful  for Margaret, I would have done nothing to keep these two young  people apart. Some to whom I have said this maintain that the  Egyptian turned my head at our first meeting. Such an argument is  not perhaps worth controverting. I admit that even now I  straighten under the fire of a bright eye, as a pensioner may  salute when he sees a young officer. In the shooting season,  should I chance to be leaning over my dyke while English sportsmen  pass (as is usually the case if I have seen them approaching), I  remember nought of them save that they call me "she," and end  their greetings with "whatever" (which Waster Lunny takes to be a  southron mode of speech), but their ladies dwell pleasantly in my  memory, from their engaging faces to the pretty crumpled thing  dangling on their arms, that is a hat or a basket, I am seldom  sure which. The Egyptian's beauty, therefore, was a gladsome sight  to me, and none the less so that I had come upon it as  unexpectedly as some men step into a bog. Had she been alone when  I met her I cannot deny that I would have been content to look on  her face, without caring what was inside it; but she was with her  lover, and that lover was Gavin, and so her face was to me as  little for admiring as this glen in a thunderstorm, when I know  that some fellow-creature is lost on the hills.

If, however, it was no quick liking for the gypsy that almost  tempted me to leave these two lovers to each other, what was it?  It was the warning of my own life. Adam Dishart had torn my arm  from Margaret's, and I had not recovered the wrench in eighteen  years. Rather than act his part between these two I felt tempted  to tell them, "Deplorable as the result may be, if you who are a  minister marry this vagabond, it will be still more deplorable if  you do not."

But there was Margaret to consider, and at thought of her I cursed  the Egyptian aloud. What could I do to keep Gavin and the woman  apart? I could tell him the secret of his mother's life. Would  that be sufficient? It would if he loved Margaret, as I did not  doubt. Pity for her would make him undergo any torture rather than  she should suffer again. But to divulge our old connection would  entail her discovery of me. and I questioned if even the saving of  Gavin could destroy the bitterness of that.

I might appeal to the Egyptian. I might tell her even what I  shuddered to tell him. She cared for him, I was sure, well enough  to have the courage to give him up. But where was I to find her?

Were she and Gavin meeting still? Perhaps the change which had  come over the little minister meant that they had parted. Yet what  I had heard him say to her on the hill warned me not to trust in  any such solution of the trouble.

Boys play at casting a humming-top into the midst of others on the  ground, and if well aimed it scatters them prettily. I seemed to  be playing such a game with my thoughts, for each new one sent the  others here and there, and so what could I do in the end but fling  my tops aside, and return to the heeling of my boot?

I was thus engaged when the sudden waking of the glen into life  took me to my window. There is seldom silence up here, for if the  wind be not sweeping the heather, the Quharity, that I may not  have heard for days, seems to have crept nearer to the school-  house in the night, and if both wind and water be out of earshot,  there is the crack of a gun, or Waster Lunny's shepherd is on a  stone near at hand whistling, or a lamb is scrambling through a  fence, and kicking foolishly with its hind legs. These sounds I am  unaware of until they stop, when I look up. Such a stillness was  broken now by music.

From my window I saw a string of people walking rapidly down the  glen, and Waster Lunny crossing his potato-field to meet them.  Remembering that, though I was in my stocking soles, the ground  was dry, I hastened to join the farmer, for I like to miss  nothing. I saw a curious sight. In front of the little procession  coming down the glen road, and so much more impressive than his  satellites that they may be put of mind as merely ploughman and  the like following a show, was a Highlander that I knew to be  Lauchlan Campbell, one of the pipers engaged to lend music to the  earl's marriage. He had the name of a thrawn man when sober, but  pretty at the pipes at both times, and he came marching down the  glen blowing gloriously, as if he had the clan of Campbell at his  heels. I know no man who is so capable on occasion of looking like  twenty as a Highland piper, and never have I seen a face in such a  blaze of passion as was Lauchlan Campbell's that day. His  following were keeping out of his reach, jumping back every time  he turned round to shake his fist in the direction of the Spittal.  While this magnificent man was yet some yards from us, I saw  Waster Lunny, who had been in the middle of the road to ask  questions, fall back in fear, and not being a fighting man myself,  I jumped the dyke. Lauchlan gave me a look that sent me farther  into the field, and strutted past, shrieking defiance through his  pipes, until I lost him and his followers in a bend of the road.

"That's a terrifying spectacle," I heard Waster Lunny say when the  music had become but a distant squeal. "You're bonny at louping  dykes, dominie, when there is a wild bull in front o' you. Na, I  canna tell what has happened, but at the least Lauchlan maun hae  dirked the earl. Thae loons cried out to me as they gaed by that  he has been blawing awa' at that tune till he canna halt. What a  wind's in the crittur! I'm thinking there's a hell in ilka  Highlandman."

"Take care then, Waster Lunny, that you dinna licht it," said an  angry voice that made us jump, though it was only Duncan, the  farmer's shepherd, who spoke.

"I had forgotten you was a Highlandman yoursel', Duncan," Waster  Lunny said nervously; but Elspeth, who had come to us unnoticed,  ordered the shepherd to return to the hillside, which he did  haughtily.

"How did you no lay haud on that blast o' wind, Lauchlan  Campbell," asked Elspeth of her husband, "and speir at him what  had happened at the Spittal? A quarrel afore a marriage brings ill  luck."

"I'm thinking," said the farmer, "that Rintoul's making his ain  ill luck by marrying on a young leddy."

"A man's never ower auld to marry," said Elspeth.

"No, nor a woman," rejoined Waster Lunny, "when she gets the  chance. But, Elspeth, I believe I can guess what has fired that  fearsome piper. Depend upon it, somebody has been speaking  disrespectful about the crittur's ancestors."

"His ancestors!" exclaimed Elspeth, scornfully. "I'm thinking mine  could hae bocht them at a crown the dozen."

"Hoots," said the farmer, "you're o' a weaving stock, and dinna  understand about ancestors. Take a stick to a Highland laddie, and  it's no him you hurt, but his ancestors. Likewise it's his  ancestors that stanes you for it. When Duncan stalked awa the now,  what think you he saw? He saw a farmer's wife dauring to order  about his ancestors; and if that's the way wi' a shepherd, what  will it be wi' a piper that has the kilts on him a' day to mind  him o' his ancestors ilka time he looks down?"

Elspeth retired to discuss the probable disturbance at the Spittal  with her family, giving Waster Lunny the opportunity of saying to  me impressively--

"Man, man, has it never crossed you that it's a queer thing the  like o' you and me having no ancestors? Ay, we had them in a  manner o' speaking, no doubt, but they're as completely lost sicht  o' as a flagon lid that's fallen ahint the dresser. Hech, sirs,  but they would need a gey rubbing to get the rust off them now,  I've been thinking that if I was to get my laddies to say their  grandfather's name a curran times ilka day, like the Catechism,  and they were to do the same wi' their bairns, and it was  continued in future generations, we micht raise a fell field o'  ancestors in time. Ay, but Elspeth wouldna hear o't. Nothing  angers her mair than to hear me speak o' planting trees for the  benefit o' them that's to be farmers here after me; and as for  ancestors, she would howk them up as quick as I could plant them.  Losh, dominie, is that a boot in your hand?"

To my mortification I saw that I had run out of the school-house  with the boot on my hand as if it were a glove, and back I went  straightway, blaming myself for a man wanting in dignity. It was  but a minor trouble this, however, even at the time; and to recall  it later in the day was to look back on happiness, for though I  did not know it yet, Lauchlan's playing raised the curtain on the  great act of Gavin's life, and the twenty-four hours had begun, to  which all I have told as yet is no more than the prologue.

CHAPTER XXVI.   - SCENE AT THE SPITTAL.

Within an hour after I had left him, Waster Lunny walked into the  school-house and handed me his snuff-mull, which I declined  politely. It was with this ceremony that we usually opened our  conversations.

"I've seen the post," he said, and he tells me there has been a  queer ploy at the Spittal. It's a wonder the marriage hasna been  turned into a burial, and all because o' that Highland stirk,  Lauchlan Campbell.

Waster Lunny was a man who had to retrace his steps in telling a  story if he tried short cuts, and so my custom was to wait  patiently while he delved through the ploughed fields that always  lay between him and his destination.

"As you ken, Rintoul's so little o' a Scotchman that he's no  muckle better than an Englisher. That maun be the reason he hadna  mair sense than to tramp on a Highlandman's ancestors, as he tried  to tramp on Lauchlan's this day."

"If Lord Rintoul insulted the piper," I suggested, giving the  farmer a helping hand cautiously, "it would be through  inadvertence. Rintoul only bought the Spittal a year ago, and  until then, I daresay, he had seldom been on our side of the  Border."

This was a foolish, interruption, for it set Walter Lunny off in a  new direction.

"That's what Elspeth says. Says she, 'When the earl has grand  estates in England, what for does he come to a barren place like  the Spittal to be married! It's gey like,' she says, 'as if he  wanted the marriage to be got by quietly; a thing,' says she,  'that no woman can stand. Furthermore,' Elspeth says, 'how has the  marriage been postponed twice?' We ken what the servants at the  Spittal says to that, namely, that the young lady is no keen to  take him, but Elspeth winna listen to sic arguments. She says  either the earl had grown timid (as mony a man does) when the  wedding-day drew near, or else his sister that keeps his house is  mad at the thocht o' losing her place; but as for the young  leddy's being sweer, says Elspeth, 'an earl's an earl however auld  he is, and a lassie's a lassie however young she is, and weel she  kens you're never sure o' a man's no changing his mind about you  till you're tied to him by law, after which it doesna so muckle  matter whether he changes his mind about you or no.' Ay, there's a  quirk in it some gait, dominie; but it's a deep water Elspeth  canna bottom."

"It is," I agreed; "but you were to tell me what Birse told you of  the disturbance at the Spittal."

"Ay, weel." he answered, "the post puts the wite o't on her little  leddyship, as they call her, though she winna be a leddyship till  the morn. All I can say is that if the earl was saft enough to do  sic a thing out of fondness for her, it's time he was married on  her, so that he may come to his senses again. That's what I say;  but Elspeth conters me, of course, and says she, 'If the young  leddy was so careless o' insulting other folks' ancestors, it  proves she has nane o' her ain; for them that has china plates  themsel's is the maist careful no to break the china plates of  others.'"

"But what was the insult? Was Lauchlan dismissed?" "Na, faags! It  was waur than that. Dominie, you're dull in the uptake compared to  Elspeth. I hadna telled her half the story afore she jaloused the  rest. However, to begin again; there's great feasting and  rejoicings gaen on at the Spittal the now, and also a banquet,  which the post says is twa dinners in one. Weel, there's a curran  Ogilvys among the guests, and it was them that egged on her little  leddyship to make the daring proposal to the earl. What was the  proposal? It was no less than that the twa pipers should be  ordered to play 'The Bonny House o' Airlie.' Dominie, I wonder you  can tak it so calm when you ken that's the Ogilvy's sang, and that  it's aimed at the clan o' Campbell."

"Pooh!" I said. "The Ogilvys and the Campbells used to be mortal  enemies, but the feud has been long forgotten."

"Ay, I've heard tell," Waster Lunny said sceptically, "that Airlie  and Argyle shakes hands now like Christians; but I'm thinking  that's just afore the Queen. Dinna speak now, for I'm in the thick  o't. Her little leddyship was all hinging in gold and jewels, the  which winna be her ain till the morn; and she leans ower to the  earl and whispers to him to get the pipers to play 'The Bonny  House.' He wasna willing, for says he, 'There's Ogilvys at the  table, and ane o' the pipers is a Campbell, and we'll better let  sleeping dogs lie.' However, the Ogilvys lauched at his caution;  and he was so infatuated wi' her little leddyship that he gae in,  and he cried out to the pipers to strike up 'The Bonny House.'"

Waster Lunny pulled his chair nearer me and rested his hand on my  knees.

"Dominie," he said in a voice that fell now and again into a  whisper, "them looking on swears that when Lauchlan Campbell heard  these monstrous orders his face became ugly and black, so that  they kent in a jiffy what he would do. It's said a' body jumped  back frae him in a sudden dread, except poor Angus, the other  piper, wha was busy tuning up for 'The Bonny House.' Weel, Angus  had got no farther in the tune than the first skirl when Lauchlan  louped at him, and ripped up the startled crittur's pipes wi' his  dirk. The pipes gae a roar o' agony like a stuck swine, and fell  gasping on the floor. What happened next was that Lauchlan wi' his  dirk handy for onybody that micht try to stop him, marched once  round the table, playing 'The Campbells are Coming,' and then  straucht out o' the Spittal, his chest far afore him, and his head  so weel back that he could see what was going on ahint. Frae the  Spittal to here he never stopped that fearsome tune, and I'se  warrant he's blawing away at it at this moment through the streets  o' Thrums."

Waster Lunny was not in his usual spirits, or he would have  repeated his story before he left me, for he had usually as much  difficulty in coming to an end as in finding a beginning. The  drought was to him as serious a matter as death in the house, and  as little to be forgotten for a lengthened period.

"There's to be a prayer-meeting for rain in the Auld Licit kirk  the night," he told me as I escorted him as far as my side of the  Quharity, now almost a dead stream, pitiable to see, "and I'm  gaen; though I'm sweer to leave thae puir cattle o' mine. You  should see how they look at me when I gie them mair o' that rotten  grass to eat. It's eneuch to mak a man greet, for what richt hae I  to keep kye when I canna meat them?"

Waster Lunny has said to me more than once that the great surprise  of his life was when Elspeth was willing to take him. Many a time,  however, I have seen that in him which might have made any  weaver's daughter proud of such a man, and I saw it again when we  came to the river side.

"I'm no ane o' thae farmers," he said, truthfully, "that's aye  girding at the weather, and Elspeth and me kens that we hae been  dealt wi' bountifully since we took this farm wi' gey anxious  hearts. That woman, dominie, is eneuch to put a brave face on a  coward, and it's no langer syne than yestreen when I was sitting  in the dumps, looking at the aurora borealis, which I canna but  regard as a messenger o' woe, that she put her hand on my shoulder  and she says, 'Waster Lunny, twenty year syne we began life  thegither wi' nothing but the claethes on our back, and an it  please God we can begin it again, for I hae you and you hae me,  and I'm no cast down if you're no.' Dominie, is there mony sic  women in the warld as that?"

"Many a one," I said.

"Ay, man, it shamed me, for I hae a kind o' delight in angering  Elspeth, just to see what she'll say. I could hae ta'en her on my  knee at that minute, but the bairns was there, and so it wouldna  hae dune. But I cheered her up, for, after all, the drought canna  put us so far back as we was twenty years syne, unless it's true  what my father said, that the aurora borealis is the devil's  rainbow. I saw it sax times in July month, and it made me shut my  een. You was out admiring it, dominie, but I can never forget that  it was seen in the year twelve just afore the great storm. I was  only a laddie then, but I mind how that awful wind stripped a' the  standing corn in the glen in less time than we've been here at the  water's edge. It was called the deil's besom. My father's hinmost  words to me was, 'It's time eneuch to greet, laddie, when you see  the aurora borealis.' I mind he was so complete ruined in an hour  that he had to apply for relief frae the poor's rates. Think o'  that, and him a proud man. He would tak' nothing till one winter  day when we was a' starving, and syne I gaed wi' him to speir  for't, and he telled me to grip his hand ticht, so that the  cauldness o' mine micht gie him courage. They were doling out the  charity in the Town's House, and I had never been in't afore. I  canna look at it now without thinking o' that day when me and my  father gaed up the stair thegither. Mr. Duthie was presiding at  the time, and he wasna muckle older than Mr. Dishart is now. I  mind he speired for proof that we was needing, and my father  couldna speak. He just pointed at me. 'But you have a good coat on  your back yoursel',' Mr. Duthie said, for there were mony waiting,  sair needing. 'It was lended him to come here,' I cried, and  without a word my father opened the coat, and they saw he had  nothing on aneath, and his skin blue wi' cauld. Dominie, Mr.  Duthie handed him one shilling and saxpence, and my father's  fingers closed greedily on't for a minute, and syne it fell to the  ground. They put it back in his hand, and it slipped out again,  and Mr. Duthie gave it back to him, saying, 'Are you so cauld as  that?' But, oh, man, it wasna cauld that did it, but shame o'  being on the rates. The blood a' ran to my father's head, and syne  left it as quick, and he flung down the siller and walked out o'  the Town House wi' me running after him. We warstled through that  winter, God kens how, and it's near a pleasure to me to think o't  now, for, rain or no rain, I can never be reduced to sic straits  again."

The farmer crossed the water without using the stilts which were  no longer necessary, and I little thought, as I returned to the  school-house, what terrible things were to happen before he could  offer me his snuff-mull again. Serious as his talk had been it was  neither of drought nor of the incident at the Spittal that I sat  down to think. My anxiety about Gavin came back to me until I was  like a man imprisoned between walls of his own building. It may be  that my presentiments of that afternoon look gloomier now than  they were, because I cannot return to them save over a night of  agony, black enough to darken any time connected with it. Perhaps  my spirits only fell as the wind rose, for wind ever takes me back  to Harvie, and when I think of Harvie my thoughts are of the  saddest. I know that I sat for some hours, now seeing Gavin pay  the penalty of marrying the Egyptian, and again drifting back to  my days with Margaret, until the wind took to playing tricks with  me, so that I heard Adam Dishart enter our home by the sea every  time the school-house door shook.

I became used to the illusion after starting several times, and  thus when the door did open, about seven o'clock, it was only the  wind rushing to my fire like a shivering dog that made me turn my  head. Then I saw the Egyptian staring at me, and though her sudden  appearance on my threshold was a strange thing, I forgot it in the  whiteness of her face. She was looking at me like one who has  asked a question of life or death, and stopped her heart for the  reply.

"What is it?" I cried, and for a moment I believe I was glad she  did not answer. She seemed to have told me already as much as I  could bear.

"He has not heard," she said aloud in an expressionless voice,  and, turning, would have slipped away without another word.

"Is any one dead?" I asked, seizing her hands and letting them  fall, they were so clammy. She nodded, and trying to speak could  not.

"He is dead," she said at last in a whisper. "Mr. Dishart is  dead," and she sat down quietly.

At that I covered my face, crying, "God help Margaret!" and then  she rose, saying fiercely, so that I drew back from her, "There is  no Margaret; he only cared for me."

"She is his mother," I said hoarsely, and then she smiled to me,  so that I thought her a harmless mad thing. "He was killed by a  piper called Lauchlan Campbell," she said, looking up at me  suddenly. "It was my fault."

"Poor Margaret!" I wailed.

"And poor Babbie," she entreated pathetically; "will no one say,  'Poor Babbie'?"

CHAPTER XXVII.   - FIRST JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS.

"How did it happen?" I asked more than once, but the Egyptian was  only with me in the body, and she did not hear. I might have been  talking to some one a mile away whom a telescope had drawn near my  eyes.

When I put on my bonnet, however, she knew that I was going to  Thrums, and she rose and walked to the door, looking behind to see  that I followed.

"You must not come," I said harshly, but her hand started to her  heart as if I had shot her, and I added quickly, "Come." We were  already some distance on our way before I repeated my question.

"What matter how it happened?" she answered piteously, and they  were words of which I felt the force. But when she said a little  later, "I thought you would say it is not true," I took courage,  and forced her to tell me all she knew. She sobbed while she  spoke, if one may sob without tears.

"I heard of it at the Spittal," she said. "The news broke out  suddenly there that the piper had quarrelled with some one in  Thrums, and that in trying to separate them Mr. Dishart was  stabbed. There is no doubt of its truth."

"We should have heard of it here," I said hopefully, "before the  news reached the Spittal. It cannot be true."

"It was brought to the Spittal," she answered, "by the hill road."

Then my spirits sank again, for I knew that this was possible.  There is a path, steep but short, across the hills between Thrums  and the top of the glen, which Mr. Glendinning took frequently  when he had to preach at both places on the same Sabbath. It is  still called the Minister's Road.

"Yet if the earl had believed it he would have sent some one into  Thrums for particulars," I said, grasping at such comfort as I  could make.

"He does believe it," she answered. "He told me of it himself."

You see the Egyptian was careless of her secret now; but what was  that secret to me? An hour ago it would have been much, and  already it was not worth listening to. If she had begun to tell me  why Lord Rintoul took a gypsy girl into his confidence I should  not have heard her.

"I ran quickly," she said. "Even if a messenger was sent he might  be behind me."

Was it her words or the tramp of a horse that made us turn our  heads at that moment? I know not. But far back in a twist of the  road we saw a horseman approaching at such a reckless pace that I  thought he was on a runaway. We stopped instinctively, and waited  for him, and twice he disappeared in hollows of the road, and then  was suddenly tearing down upon us. I recognised in him young Mr.  McKenzie, a relative of Rintoul, and I stretched out my arms to  compel him to draw up. He misunderstood my motive, and was raising  his whip threateningly, when he saw the Egyptian, It is not too  much to say that he swayed in the saddle. The horse galloped on,  though he had lost hold of the reins. He looked behind until he  rounded a corner, and I never saw such amazement mixed with  incredulity on a human face. For some minutes I expected to see  him coming back, but when he did not I said wonderingly to the  Egyptian--

"He knew you."

"Did he?" she answered indifferently, and I think we spoke no more  until we were in Windyghoul. Soon we were barely conscious of each  other's presence. Never since have I walked between the school-  house and Thrums in so short a time, nor seen so little on the  way.

In the Egyptian's eyes, I suppose, was a picture of Gavin lying  dead; but if her grief had killed her thinking faculties, mine,  that was only less keen because I had been struck down once  before, had set all the wheels of my brain in action. For it  seemed to me that the hour had come when I must disclose myself to  Margaret.

I had realised always that if such a necessity did arise it could  only be caused by Gavin's premature death, or by his proving a bad  son to her. Some may wonder that I could have looked calmly thus  far into the possible, but I reply that the night of Adam  Dishart's home-coming had made of me a man whom the future could  not surprise again. Though I saw Gavin and his mother happy in our  Auld Licht manse, that did not prevent my considering the  contingencies which might leave her without a son. In the school-  house I had brooded over them as one may think over moves on a  draught-board. It may have been idle, but it was done that I might  know how to act best for Margaret if any thing untoward occurred.  The time for such action had come. Gavin's death had struck me  hard, but it did not crush me. I was not unprepared. I was going  to Margaret now.

What did I see as I walked quickly along the glen road, with  Babbie silent by my side, and I doubt not pods of the broom  cracking all around us? I saw myself entering the Auld Licht  manse, where Margaret sat weeping over the body of Gavin, and  there was none to break my coming to her, for none but she and I  knew what had been.

I saw my Margaret again, so fragile now, so thin the wrists, her  hair turned grey. No nearer could I go, but stopped at the door,  grieving for her, and at last saying her name aloud.

I saw her raise her face, and look upon me for the first time for  eighteen years. She did not scream at sight of me, for the body of  her son lay between us, and bridged the gulf that Adam Dishart had  made.

I saw myself draw near her reverently and say, "Margaret, he is  dead, and that is why I have come back," and I saw her put her  arms around my neck as she often did long ago.

But it was not to be. Never since that night at Harvie have I  spoken to Margaret.

The Egyptian and I were to come to Windyghoul before I heard her  speak. She was not addressing me. Here Gavin and she had met  first, and she was talking of that meeting to herself.

"It was there," I heard her say softly, as she gazed at the bush  beneath which she had seen him shaking his fist at her on the  night of the riots. A little farther on she stopped where a path  from Windyghoul sets off for the well in the wood. She looked up  it wistfully, and there I left her behind, and pressed on to the  mud-house to ask Nanny Webster if the minister was dead. Nanny's  gate was swinging in the wind, but her door was shut, and for a  moment I stood at it like a coward, afraid to enter and hear the  worst.

The house was empty. I turned from it relieved, as if I had got a  respite, and while I stood in the garden the Egyptian came to me  shuddering, her twitching face asking the question that would not  leave her lips.

"There is no one in the house," I said. "Nanny is perhaps at the  well."

But the gypsy went inside, and pointing to the fire said, "It has  been out for hours. Do you not see? The murder has drawn every one  into Thrums."

So I feared. A dreadful night was to pass before I knew that this  was the day of the release of Sanders Webster, and that frail  Nanny had walked into Tilliedrum to meet him at the prison gate.

Babbie sank upon a stool, so weak that I doubt whether she heard  me tell her to wait there until my return. I hurried into Thrums,  not by the hill, though it is the shorter way, but by the Roods,  for I must hear all before I ventured to approach the manse. From  Windyghoul to the top of the Roods it is a climb and then a steep  descent. The road has no sooner reached its highest point than it  begins to fall in the straight line of houses called the Roods,  and thus I came upon a full view of the street at once. A cart was  laboring up it. There were women sitting on stones at their doors,  and girls playing at palaulays, and out of the house nearest me  came a black figure. My eyes failed me; I was asking so much from  them. They made him tall and short, and spare and stout, so that I  knew it was Gavin, and yet, looking again, feared, but all the  time, I think, I knew it was he.

CHAPTER XXVIII.   - THE HILL BEFORE DARKNESS FELL--SCENE OF THE IMPENDING CATASTROPHE.

"You are better now?" I heard Gavin ask, presently.

He thought that having been taken ill suddenly I had waved to him  for help because he chanced to be near. With all my wits about me  I might have left him in that belief, for rather would I have  deceived him than had him wonder why his welfare seemed so vital  to me. But I, who thought the capacity for being taken aback had  gone from me, clung to his arm and thanked God audibly that he  still lived. He did not tell me then how my agitation puzzled him,  but led me kindly to the hill, where we could talk without  listeners. By the time we reached it I was again wary, and I had  told him what had brought me to Thrums, without mentioning how the  story of his death reached my ears, or through whom.

"Mr. McKenzie," he said, interrupting me, "galloped all the way  from the Spittal on the same errand. However, no one has been hurt  much, except the piper himself."

Then he told me how the rumor arose.

"You know of the incident at the Spittal, and that Campbell  marched off in high dudgeon? I understand that he spoke to no one  between the Spittal and Thrums, but by the time he arrived here he  was more communicative; yes, and thirstier. He was treated to  drink in several public-houses by persons who wanted to hear his  story, and by-and-by he began to drop hints of knowing something  against the earl's bride. Do you know Rob Dow?"

"Yes," I answered, "and what you have done for him."

"Ah, sir!" he said, sighing, "for a long time I thought I was to  be God's instrument in making a better man of Rob, but my power  over him went long ago. Ten short months of the ministry takes  some of the vanity out of a man."

Looking sideways at him I was startled by the unnatural brightness  of his eyes. Unconsciously he had acquired the habit of pressing  his teeth together in the pauses of his talk, shutting them on  some woe that would proclaim itself, as men do who keep their  misery to themselves.

"A few hours ago," he went on, "I heard Rob's voice in altercation  as I passed the Bull tavern, and I had, a feeling that if I failed  with him so should I fail always throughout my ministry. I walked  into the public-house, and stopped at the door of a room in which  Dow and the piper were sitting drinking. I heard Rob saying,  fiercely, 'If what you say about her is true, Highlandman, she's  the woman I've been looking for this half year and mair; what is  she like?' I guessed, from what I had been told of the piper, that  they were speaking of the earl's bride; but Rob saw me and came to  an abrupt stop, saying to his companion, 'Dinna say another word  about her afore the minister.' Rob would have come away at once in  answer to my appeal, but the piper was drunk and would not be  silenced. 'I'll tell the minister about her, too,' he began. 'You  dinna ken what you're doing," Rob roared, and then, as if to save  my ears from scandal at any cost, he struck Campbell a heavy blow  on the mouth. I tried to intercept the blow, with the result that  I fell, and then some one ran out of the tavern crying, 'He's  killed!' The piper had been stunned, but the story went abroad  that he had stabbed me for interfering with him. That is really  all. Nothing, as you know, can overtake an untruth if it has a  minute's start."

"Where is Campbell now?"

"Sleeping off the effect of the blow: but Dow has fled. He was  terrified at the shouts of murder, and ran off up the West Town  end. The doctor's dogcart was standing at a door there and Rob  jumped into it and drove off. They did not chase him far, because  he is sure to hear the truth soon, and then, doubtless, he will  come back."

Though in a few hours we were to wonder at our denseness, neither  Gavin nor I saw why Dow had struck the Highlander down rather than  let him tell his story in the minister's presence. One moment's  suspicion would have lit our way to the whole truth, but of the  spring to all Rob's behavior in the past eight months we were  ignorant, and so to Gavin the Bull had only been the scene of a  drunken brawl, while I forgot to think in the joy of finding him  alive.

"I have a prayer-meeting for rain presently," Gavin said, breaking  a picture that had just appeared unpleasantly before me of Babbie  still in agony at Nanny's, "but before I leave you tell me why  this rumor caused you such distress."

The question troubled me, and I tried to avoid it. Crossing the  hill we had by this time drawn near a hollow called the Toad's-  hole, then gay and noisy with a caravan of gypsies. They were  those same wild Lindsays, for whom Gavin had searched Caddam one  eventful night, and as I saw them crowding round their king, a man  well known to me, I guessed what they were at.

"Mr. Dishart," I said abruptly, "would you like to see a gypsy  marriage? One is taking place there just now. That big fellow is  the king, and he is about to marry two of his people over the  tongs. The ceremony will not detain us five minutes, though the  rejoicings will go on all night."

I have been present at more than one gypsy wedding in my time, and  at the wild, weird orgies that followed them, but what is  interesting to such as I may not be for a minister's eyes, and,  frowning at my proposal, Gavin turned his back upon the Toad's-  hole. Then, as we recrossed the hill, to get away from the din of  the camp, I pointed out to him that the report of his, death had  brought McKenzie to Thrums, as well as me.

"As soon as McKenzie heard I was not dead," he answered, "he  galloped off to the Spittal, without ever seeing me. I suppose he  posted back to be in time for the night's rejoicings there. So you  see, it was no solicitude for me that brought him. He came because  a servant at the Spittal was supposed to have done the deed."

"Well, Mr. Dishart," I had to say, "why should deny that I have a  warm regard for you? You have done brave work in our town."

"It has been little," he replied. "With God's help it will be more  in future."

He meant that he had given time to his sad love affair that he  owed to his people. Of seeing Babbit again I saw that he had given  up hope. Instead of repining, he was devoting his whole soul to  God's work. I was proud of him, and yet I grieved, for I could no  think that God wanted him to bury his youth so soon.

"I had thought," he confessed to me, "that you were one of those  who did not like my preaching."

"You were mistaken," I said, gravely. I dared not tell him that,  except his mother, none would have saw under him so eagerly as I.

"Nevertheless," he said, "you were a member of the Auld Licht  church in Mr. Carfrae's time, and you left it when I came."

"I heard your first sermon," I said.

"Ah," he replied. "I had not been long in Thrums before I  discovered that if I took tea with any of my congregation and  declined a second cup, they thought it a reflection on their  brewing."

"You must not look upon my absence in that light," was all I could  say. "There are reasons why I cannot come."

He did not press me further, thinking I meant that the distance  was too great, though frailer folk than I walked twenty miles to  hear him. We might have parted thus had we not wandered by chance  to the very spot where I had met him and Babbie. There is a seat  there now for those who lose their breath on the climb up, and so  I have two reasons nowadays for not passing the place by.

We read each other's thoughts, and Gavin said calmly, "I have not  seen her since that night. She disappeared as into a grave."

How could I answer when I knew that Babbie was dying for want of  him, not half a mile away?

"You seemed to understand everything that night," he went on; "or  if you did not, your thoughts were very generous to me."

In my sorrow for him I did not notice that we were moving on  again, this time in the direction of Windyghoul.

"She was only a gypsy girl," he said, abruptly, and I nodded. "But  I hoped," he continued," that she would be my wife."

"I understood that," I said.

"There was nothing monstrous to you," he asked, looking me in the  face, "in a minister's marrying a gypsy?"

I own that if I had loved a girl, however far below or above me in  degree, I would have married her had she been willing to take me.  But to Gavin I only answered, "These are matters a man must decide  for himself."

"I had decided for myself," he said, emphatically.

"Yet," I said, wanting him to talk to me of Margaret, "in such a  case one might have others to consider besides himself."

"A man's marriage," he answered, "is his own affair, I would have  brooked no interference from my congregation."

I thought, "There is some obstinacy left in him still;" but aloud  I said, "It was of your mother I was thinking."

"She would have taken Babbie to her heart," he said, with the fond  conviction of a lover.

I doubted it, but I only asked, "Your mother knows nothing of  her?"

"Nothing," he rejoined. "It would be cruelty to tell my mother of  her now that she is gone."

Gavin's calmness had left him, and he was striding quickly nearer  to Windyghoul. I was in dread lest he should see the Egyptian at  Nanny's door, yet to have turned him in another direction might  have roused his suspicions. When we were within a hundred yards of  the mudhouse, I knew that there was no Babbie in sight. We halved  the distance and then I saw her at the open window. Gavin's eyes  were on the ground, but she saw him. I held my breath, fearing  that she would run out to him.

"You have never seen her since that night?" Gavin asked me,  without hope in his voice.

Had he been less hopeless he would have wondered why I did not  reply immediately. I was looking covertly at the mudhouse, of  which we were now within a few yards. Babbie's face had gone from  the window, and. the door remained shut. That she could hear every  word we uttered now, I could not doubt. But she was hiding from  the man for whom her soul longed. She was sacrificing herself for  him.

"Never," I answered, notwithstanding my pity of the brave girl,  and then while I was shaking lest he should go in to visit Nanny,  I heard the echo of the Auld Licht bell.

"That calls me to the meeting for rain," Gavin said, bidding me  good-night. I had acted for Margaret, and yet I had hardly the  effrontery to take his hand. I suppose he saw sympathy in my face,  for suddenly the cry broke from him--

"If I could only know that nothing evil had befallen her!"

Babbie heard him and could not restrain a heartbreaking sob.

"What was that?" he said, starting.

A moment I waited, to let her show herself if she chose. But the  mudhouse was silent again.

"It was some boy in the wood," I answered.

"Good-bye," he said, trying to smile.

Had I let him go, here would have been the end of his love story,  but that piteous smile unmanned me, and I could not keep the words  back.

"She is in Nanny's house," I cried.

In another moment these two were together for weal or woe, and I  had set off dizzily for the school-house, feeling now that I had  been false to Margaret, and again exulting in what I had done. By  and by the bell stopped, and Gavin and Babbie regarded it as  little as I heeded the burns now crossing the glen road noisily at  places that had been dry two hours before.

CHAPTER XXIX.   - STORY OF THE EGYPTIAN.

God gives us more than, were we not overbold, we should dare to  ask for, and yet how often (perhaps after saying "Thank God" so  curtly that it is only a form of swearing) we are suppliants again  within the hour. Gavin was to be satisfied if he were told that no  evil had befallen her he loved, and all the way between the  school-house and Windyghoul Babbie craved for no more than Gavin's  life. Now they had got their desires; but do you think they were  content?

The Egyptian had gone on her knees when she heard Gavin speak of  her. It was her way of preventing herself from running to him.  Then, when she thought him gone, he opened the door. She rose and  shrank back, but first she had stepped toward him with a glad cry.  His disappointed arms met on nothing.

"You, too, heard that I was dead?" he said, thinking her  strangeness but grief too sharply turned to joy.

There were tears in the word with which she answered him, and he  would have kissed her, but she defended her face with her hand.

"Babbie," he asked, beginning to fear that he had not sounded her  deepest woe, "why have you left me all this time? You are not glad  to see me now?"

"I was glad," she answered in a low voice, "to see you from the  window, but I prayed to God not to let you see me."

She even pulled away her hand when he would have taken it. "No,  no, I am to tell you everything now, and then--"

"Say that you love me first," he broke in, when a sob checked her  speaking.

"No," she said, "I must tell you first what I have done, and then  you will not ask me to say that. I am not a gypsy."

"What of that?" cried Gavin. "It was not because you were a gypsy  that I loved you."

"That is the last time you will say you love me," said Babbie.  "Mr. Dishart, I am to be married to-morrow."

She stopped, afraid to say more lest he should fall, but except  that his arms twitched he did not move.

"I am to be married to Lord Rintoul," she went on. "Now you know  who I am."

She turned from him, for his piercing eyes frightened her. Never  again, she knew, would she see the love-light in them. He plucked  himself from the spot where he had stood looking at her and walked  to the window. When he wheeled round there was no anger on his  face, only a pathetic wonder that he had been deceived so easily.  It was at himself that he was smiling grimly rather than at her,  and the change pained Babbie as no words could have hurt her. He  sat down on a chair and waited for her to go on.

"Don't look at me," she said, "and I will tell you everything." He  dropped his eyes listlessly, and had he not asked her a question  from time to time, she would have doubted whether he heard her.

"After all," she said, "a gypsy dress is my birthright, and so the  Thrums people were scarcely wrong in calling me an Egyptian. It is  a pity any one insisted on making me something different. I  believe I could have been a good gypsy."

"Who were your parents?" Gavin asked, without looking up.

"You ask that," she said, "because you have a good mother. It is  not a question that would occur to me. My mother--If she was bad,  may not that be some excuse for me? Ah, but I have no wish to  excuse myself. Have you seen a gypsy cart with a sort of hammock  swung beneath it in which gypsy children are carried about the  country? If there are no children, the pots and pans are stored in  it. Unless the roads are rough it makes a comfortable cradle, and  it was the only one I ever knew. Well, one day I suppose the road  was rough, for I was capsized. I remember picking myself up after  a little and running after the cart, but they did not hear my  cries. I sat down by the roadside and stared after the cart until  I lost sight of it. That was in England, and I was not three years  old."

"But surely," Gavin said, "they came back to look for you?"

"So far as I know," Babbie answered hardly, "they did not come  back. I have never seen them since. I think they were drunk. My  only recollection of my mother is that she once took me to see the  dead body of some gypsy who had been murdered. She told me to dip  my hand in the blood, so that I could say I had done so when I  became a woman. It was meant as a treat to me, and is the one  kindness I am sure I got from her. Curiously enough, I felt the  shame of her deserting me for many years afterwards. As a child I  cried hysterically at thought of it; it pained me when I was at  school in Edinburgh every time I saw the other girls writing home;  I cannot think of it without a shudder even now. It is what makes  me worse than other women."

Her voice had altered, and she was speaking passionately.

"Sometimes," she continued, more gently, "I try to think that my  mother did come back for me, and then went away because she heard  I was in better hands than hers. It was Lord Rintoul who found me,  and I owe everything to him. You will say that he has no need to  be proud of me. He took me home on his horse, and paid his  gardener's wife to rear me. She was Scotch, and that is why I can  speak two languages. It was he, too, who sent me to school in  Edinburgh."

"He has been very kind to you," said Gavin, who would have  preferred to dislike the earl.

"So kind," answered Babbie, "that now he is to marry me. But do  you know why he has done all this?"

Now again she was agitated, and spoke indignantly.

"It is all because I have a pretty face," she said, her bosom  rising and falling. "Men think of nothing else. He had no pity for  the deserted child. I knew that while I was yet on his horse. When  he came to the gardener's afterwards, it was not to give me some  one to love, it was only to look upon what was called my beauty; I  was merely a picture to him, and even the gardener's children knew  it and sought to terrify me by saying, 'You are losing your looks;  the earl will not care for you any more.' Sometimes he brought his  friends to see me, 'because I was such a lovely child,' and if  they did not agree with him on that point he left without kissing  me. Throughout my whole girlhood I was taught nothing but to  please him, and the only way to do that was to be pretty. It was  the only virtue worth striving for; the others were never thought  of when he asked how I was getting on. Once I had fever and nearly  died, yet this knowledge that my face was everything was implanted  in me so that my fear lest he should think me ugly when I  recovered terrified me into hysterics. I dream still that I am in  that fever and all my fears return. He did think me ugly when he  saw me next. I remember the incident so well still. I had run to  him, and he was lifting me up to kiss me when he saw that my face  had changed. 'What a cruel disappointment,' he said, and turned  his back on me. I had given him a child's love until then, but  from that day I was hard and callous."

"And when was it you became beautiful again?" Gavin asked, by no  means in the mind to pay compliments.

"A year passed," she continued, "before I saw him again. In that  time he had not asked for me once, and the gardener had kept me  out of charity. It was by an accident that we met, and at first he  did not know me. Then he said, 'Why, Babbie, I believe you are to  be a beauty, after all!' I hated him for that, and stalked away  from him, but he called after me, 'Bravo! she walks like a queen';  and it was because I walked like a queen that he sent me to an  Edinburgh school. He used to come to see me every year, and as I  grew up the girls called me Lady Rintoul. He was not fond of me;  he is not fond of me now. He would as soon think of looking at the  back of a picture as at what I am apart from my face, but he dotes  on it, and is to marry it. Is that love? Long before I left  school, which was shortly before you came to Thrums, he had told  his sister that he was determined to marry me, and she hated me  for it, making me as uncomfortable as she could, so that I almost  looked forward to the marriage because it would be such a  humiliation to her."

In admitting this she looked shamefacedly at Gavin, and then went  on:

"It is humiliating him too. I understand him. He would like not to  want to marry me, for he is ashamed of my origin, but he cannot  help it. It is this feeling that has brought him here, so that the  marriage may take place where my history is not known."

"The secret has been well kept," Gavin said, "for they have failed  to discover it even in Thrums."

"Some of the Spittal servants suspect it, nevertheless," Babbie  answered, "though how much they know I cannot say. He has not a  servant now, either here or in England, who knew me as a child.  The gardener who befriended me was sent away long ago. Lord  Rintoul looks upon me as a disgrace to him that he cannot live  without."

"I dare say he cares for you more than you think," Gavin said  gravely.

"He is infatuated about my face, or the pose of my head, or  something of that sort," Babbie said bitterly, "or he would not  have endured me so long. I have twice had the wedding postponed,  chiefly, I believe, to enrage my natural enemy, his sister, who is  as much aggravated by my reluctance to marry him as by his desire  to marry me. However, I also felt that imprisonment for life was  approaching as the day drew near, and I told him that if he did  not defer the wedding I should run away. He knows I am capable of  it, for twice I ran away from school. If his sister only knew  that!"

For a moment it was the old Babbie Gavin saw; but her glee was  short-lived, and she resumed sedately:

"They were kind to me at school, but the life was so dull and prim  that I ran off in a gypsy dress of my own making. That is what it  is to have gypsy blood in one. I was away for a week the first  time, wandering the country alone, telling fortunes, dancing and  singing in woods, and sleeping in barns. I am the only woman in  the world well brought up who is not afraid of mice or rats. That  is my gypsy blood again. After that wild week I went back to the  school of my own will, and no one knows of the escapade but my  school-mistress and Lord Rintoul. The second time, however, I was  detected singing in the street, and then my future husband was  asked to take me away. Yet Miss Feversham cried when I left, and  told me that I was the nicest girl she knew, as well as the  nastiest. She said she should love me as soon as I was not one of  her boarders."

"And then you came to the Spittal?"

"Yes; and Lord Rintoul wanted me to say I was sorry for what I had  done, but I told him I need not say that, for I was sure to do It  again. As you know, I have done it several times since then; and  though I am a different woman since I knew you, I dare say I shall  go on doing it at times all my life. You shake your head because  you do not understand. It is not that I make up my mind to break  out in that way; I may not have had the least desire to do it for  weeks, and then suddenly, when I am out riding, or at dinner, or  at a dance, the craving to be a gypsy again is so strong that I  never think of resisting it; I would risk my life to gratify it.  Yes, whatever my life in the future is to be, I know that must be  a part of it. I used to pretend at the Spittal that I had gone to  bed, and then escape by the window. I was mad with glee at those  times, but I always returned before morning, except once, the last  time I saw you, when I was away for nearly twenty-four hours. Lord  Rintoul was so glad to see me come back then that he almost  forgave me for going away. There is nothing more to tell except  that on the night of the riot it was not my gypsy nature that  brought me to Thrums, but a desire to save the poor weavers. I had  heard Lord Rintoul and the sheriff discussing the contemplated  raid. I have hidden nothing from you. In time, perhaps, I shall  have suffered sufficiently for all my wickedness."

Gavin rose weariedly, and walked through the mudhouse looking at  her.

"This is the end of it all," he said harshly, coming to a  standstill. "I loved you, Babbie."

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "You never knew me until  now, and so it was not me you loved. I know what you thought I  was, and I will try to be it now."

"If you had only told me this before," the minister said sadly,  "it might not have been too late."

"I only thought you like all the other men I knew," she replied,  "until the night I came to the manse. It was only my face you  admired at first."

"No, it was never that," Gavin said with such conviction that her  mouth opened in alarm to ask him if he did not think her pretty.  She did not speak, however, and he continued, "You must have known  that I loved you from the first night."

"No; you only amused me," she said, like one determined to stint  nothing of the truth. "Even at the well I laughed at your vows."

This wounded Gavin afresh, wretched as her story had made him, and  he said tragically, "You have never cared for me at all."

"Oh, always, always," she answered, "since I knew what love was;  and it was you who taught me."

Even in his misery he held his head high with pride. At least she  did love him.

"And then," Babbie said, hiding her face, "I could not tell you  what I was because I knew you would loathe me. I could only go  away."

She looked at him forlornly through her tears, and then moved  toward the door. He had sunk upon a stool, his face resting on the  table, and it was her intention to slip away unnoticed. But he  heard the latch rise, and jumping up, said sharply, "Babbie, I  cannot give you up."

She stood in tears, swinging the door unconsciously with her hand.

"Don't say that you love me still," she cried; and then, letting  her hand fall from the door, added imploringly, "Oh, Gavin, do  you?"

CHAPTER XXX.   - THE MEETING FOR RAIN.

Meanwhile the Auld Lichts were in church, waiting for their  minister, and it was a full meeting, because nearly every well in  Thrums had been scooped dry by anxious palms. Yet not all were  there to ask God's rain for themselves. Old Charles Yuill was in  his pew, after dreaming thrice that he would break up with the  drought; and Bell Christison had come, though her man lay dead at  home, and she thought it could matter no more to her how things  went in the world.

You, who do not love that little congregation, would have said  that they were waiting placidly. But probably so simple a woman as  Meggy Rattray could have deceived you into believing that because  her eyes were downcast she did not notice who put the three-penny-  bit in the plate. A few men were unaware that the bell was working  overtime, most of them farmers with their eyes on the windows, but  all the women at least were wondering. They knew better, however,  than to bring their thoughts to their faces, and none sought to  catch another's eye. The men-folk looked heavily at their hats in  the seats in front. Even when Hendry Munn, instead of marching to  the pulpit with the big Bible in his hands, came as far as the  plate and signed to Peter Tosh, elder, that he was wanted in the  vestry, you could not have guessed how every woman there, except  Bell Christison, wished she was Peter Tosh. Peter was so taken  aback that he merely gaped at Hendry, until suddenly he knew that  his five daughters were furious with him, when he dived for his  hat and staggered to the vestry with his mouth open. His boots  cheeped all the way, but no one looked up.

"I hadna noticed the minister was lang in coming," Waster Lunny  told me afterward, "but Elspeth noticed it, and with a quickness  that baffles me she saw I was thinking o' other things. So she let  out her foot at me. I gae a low cough to let her ken I wasna  sleeping, but in a minute out goes her foot again. Ay, syne I  thocht I micht hae dropped my hanky into Snecky Hobart's pew, but  no, it was in my tails. Yet her hand was on the board, and she was  working her fingers in a way that I kent meant she would like to  shake me. Next I looked to see if I was sitting on her frock, the  which tries a woman sair, but I wasna, 'Does she want to change  Bibles wi' me?' I wondered; 'or is she sliding yont a peppermint  to me?' It was neither, so I edged as far frae her as I could  gang. Weel, would you credit it, I saw her body coming nearer me  inch by inch, though she was looking straucht afore her, till she  was within kick o' me, and then out again goes her foot. At that,  dominie, I lost patience, and I whispered, fierce-like, 'Keep your  foot to yoursel', you limmer!' Ay, her intent, you see, was to  waken me to what was gaen on, but I couldna be expected to ken  that."

In the vestry Hendry Munn was now holding counsel with three  elders, of whom the chief was Lang Tammas.

"The laddie I sent to the manse," Hendry said, "canna be back this  five minutes, and the question is how we're to fill up that time.  I'll ring no langer, for the bell has been in a passion ever since  a quarter-past eight. It's as sweer to clang past the quarter as a  horse to gallop by its stable."

"You could gang to your box and gie out a psalm, Tammas,"  suggested John Spens.

"And would a psalm sung wi' sic an object," retorted the  precentor, "mount higher, think you, than a bairn's kite? I'll  insult the Almighty to screen no minister."

"You're screening him better by standing whaur you are," said the  imperturbable Hendry; "for as lang as you dinna show your face  they'll think it may be you that's missing instead o' Mr.  Dishart."

Indeed, Gavin's appearance in church without the precentor would  have been as surprising as Tammas's without the minister. As  certainly as the shutting of a money-box is followed by the  turning of the key, did the precentor walk stiffly from the vestry  to his box a toll of the bell in front of the minister. Tammas's  halfpenny rang in the plate as Gavin passed T'nowhead's pew, and  Gavin's sixpence with the snapping-to of the precentor's door. The  two men might have been connected by a string that tightened at  ten yards.

"The congregation ken me ower weel," Tammas said, "to believe I  would keep the Lord waiting."

"And they are as sure o' Mr. Dishart," rejoined Spens, with  spirit, though he feared the precentor on Sabbaths and at prayer-  meetings. "You're a hard man."

"I speak the blunt truth," Whamond answered.

"Ay," said Spens, "and to tak' credit for that may be like blawing  that you're ower honest to wear claethes."

Hendry, who had gone to the door, returned now with the  information that Mr. Dishart had left the manse two hours ago to  pay visits, meaning to come to the prayer-meeting before he  returned home.

"There's a quirk in this, Hendry," said Tosh. "Was it Mistress  Dishart the laddie saw?"

"No," Hendry replied. "It was Jean. She canna get to the meeting  because the mistress is nervous in the manse by herself; and Jean  didna like to tell her that he's missing, for fear o' alarming  her. What are we to do now?"

"He's an unfaithful shepherd," cried the precentor, while Hendry  again went out. "I see it written on the walls."

"I dinna," said Spens doggedly.

"Because," retorted Tammas, "having eyes you see not."

"Tammas, I aye thocht you was fond o' Mr. Dishart."

"If my right eye were to offend me," answered the precentor. "I  would pluck it out. I suppose you think, and baith o' you farmers  too, that there's no necessity for praying for rain the nicht?  You'll be content, will ye, if Mr. Dishart just drops in to the  kirk some day, accidental-like, and offers up a bit prayer?"

"As for the rain," Spens said, triumphantly, "I wouldna wonder  though it's here afore the minister. You canna deny, Peter Tosh,  that there's been a smell o' rain in the air this twa hours back."

"John," Peter said agitatedly, "dinna speak so confidently. I've  kent it," he whispered, "since the day turned; but it wants to  tak' us by surprise, lad, and so I'm no letting on."

"See that you dinna make an idol o' the rain," thundered Whamond.  "Your thochts is no wi' Him, but wi' the clouds; and, whaur your  thochts are, there will your prayers stick also."

"If you saw my lambs," Tosh began; and then, ashamed of himself,  said, looking upward, "He holds the rain in the hollow of His  hand."

"And He's closing His neive ticht on't again," said the precentor  solemnly. "Hearken to the wind rising!"

"God help me!" cried Tosh, wringing his hands. "Is it fair, think  you," he said, passionately addressing the sky, "to show your  wrath wi' Mr. Dishart by ruining my neeps?"

"You were richt, Tammas Whamond," Spens said, growing hard as he  listened to the wind, "the sanctuary o' the Lord has been profaned  this nicht by him wha should be the chief pillar o' the building."

They were lowering brows that greeted Hendry when he returned to  say that Mr. Dishart had been seen last on the hill with the Glen  Quharity dominie.

"Some thinks," said the kirk officer, "that he's awa hunting for  Rob Dow."

"Nothing'll excuse him," replied Spens, "short o' his having  fallen over the quarry."

Hendry's was usually a blank face, but it must have looked  troubled now, for Tosh was about to say, "Hendry, you're keeping  something back," when the precentor said it before him.

"Wi' that story o' Mr. Dishart's murder, no many hours auld yet,"  the kirk officer replied evasively, "we should be wary o' trusting  gossip."

"What hae you heard?"

"It's through the town," Hendry answered, "that a woman was wi'  the dominie."

"A woman!" cried Tosh, "The woman there's been sic talk about in  connection wi' the minister? Whaur are they now?"

"It's no kent, but--the dominie was seen goin' hame by himsel'."

"Leaving the minister and her thegither!" cried the three men at  once.

"Hendry Munn," Tammas said sternly, "there's mair about this; wha  is the woman?"

"They are liars," Hendry answered, and shut his mouth tight.

"Gie her a name, I say," the precentor ordered, "or, as chief  elder of this kirk, supported by mair than half o' the Session, I  command you to lift your hat and go."

Hendry gave an appealing look to Tosh and Spens, but the  precentor's solemnity had cowed them.

"They say, then," he answered sullenly, "that it's the Egyptian.  Yes, and I believe they ken."

The two farmers drew back from this statement incredulously; but  Tammas Whamond jumped at the kirk officer's throat, and some who  were in the church that night say they heard Hendry scream. Then  the precentor's fingers relaxed their grip, and he tottered into  the middle of the room.

"Hendry," he pleaded, holding out his arms pathetically, "tak'  back these words. Oh, man, have pity, and tak' them back!"

But Hendry would not, and then Lang Tammas's mouth worked  convulsively, and he sobbed, crying, "Nobody kent it, but mair  than mortal son, O God, I did love the lad!"

So seldom in a lifetime had any one seen into this man's heart  that Spens said, amazed:

"Tammas, Tammas Whamond, it's no like you to break down."

The rusty door of Whamond's heart swung to.

"Who broke down?" he asked fiercely. "Let no member of this  Session dare to break down till his work be done."

"What work?" Tosh said uneasily. "We canna interfere."

"I would rather resign," Spens said, but shook when Whamond hurled  these words at him:

"'And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the  plough and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.'"

"It mayna be true," Hendry said eagerly.

"We'll soon see."

"He would gie her up," said Tosh.

"Peter Tosh," answered Whamond sternly, "I call upon you to  dismiss the congregation."

"Should we no rather haud the meeting oursel's?"

"We have other work afore us," replied the precentor.

"But what can I say?" Tosh asked nervously, "Should I offer up a  prayer?"

"I warn you all," broke in Hendry, "that though the congregation  is sitting there quietly, they'll be tigers for the meaning o'  this as soon as they're in the street."

"Let no ontruth be telled them," said the precentor. "Peter Tosh,  do your duty. John Spens, remain wi' me."

The church emptied silently, but a buzz of excitement arose  outside. Many persons tried to enter the vestry, but were ordered  away, and when Tosh joined his fellow-elders the people were  collecting in animated groups in the square, or scattering through  the wynds for news.

"And now," said the precentor, "I call upon the three o' you to  come wi' me. Hendry Munn, you gang first."

"I maun bide ahint," Hendry said, with a sudden fear, "to lock up  the kirk."

"I'll lock up the kirk," Whamond answered harshly.

"You maun gie me the keys, though," entreated the kirk officer.

"I'll take care o' the keys," said Whamond.

"I maun hae them," Hendry said, "to open the kirk on Sabbath."

The precentor locked the doors, and buttoned up the keys in his  trousers pockets.

"Wha kens," he said, in a voice of steel, "that the kirk'll be  open next Sabbath?"

"Hae some mercy on him, Tamtnas," Spens implored. "He's no twa-  and-twenty."

"Wha kens," continued the precentor, "but that the next time this  kirk is opened will be to preach it toom?"

"What road do we tak'?"

"The road to the hill, whaur he was seen last."

CHAPTER XXXI.   - VARIOUS BODIES CONVERGING ON THE HILL.

It would be coming on for a quarter-past nine, and a misty night,  when I reached the school-house, and I was so weary of mind and  body that I sat down without taking off my bonnet. I had left the  door open, and I remember listlessly watching the wind making a  target of my candle, but never taking a sufficiently big breath to  do more than frighten it. From this lethargy I was roused by the  sound of wheels.

In the daytime our glen road leads to many parts, but in the night  only to the doctor's. Then the gallop of a horse makes farmers  start up in bed and cry, "Who's ill?" I went to my door and  listened to the trap coming swiftly down the lonely glen, but I  could not see it, for there was a trailing scarf of mist between  the school-house and the road. Presently I heard the swish of the  wheels in water, and so learned that they were crossing the ford  to come to me. I had been unstrung by the events of the evening,  and fear at once pressed thick upon me that this might be a sequel  to them, as indeed it was.

While still out of sight the trap stopped, and I heard some one  jump from it. Then came this conversation, as distinct as though  it had been spoken into my ear:

"Can you see the school-house now, McKenzie?"

"I am groping for it, Rintoul. The mist seems to have made off  with the path."

"Where are you, McKenzie? I have lost sight of you."

It was but a ribbon of mist, and as these words were spoken  McKenzie broke through it. I saw him, though to him I was only a  stone at my door.

"I have found the house, Rintoul," he shouted, "and there is a  light in it, so that the fellow has doubtless returned."

"Then wait a moment for me."

"Stay where you are, Rintoul, I entreat you, and leave him to me.  He may recognize you."

"No, no, McKenzie, I am sure he never saw me before. I insist on  accompanying you."

"Your excitement, Rintoul, will betray you. Let me go alone. I can  question him without rousing his suspicions. Remember, she is only  a gypsy to him."

"He will learn nothing from me. I am quite calm now."

"Rintoul, I warn you your manner will betray you, and to-morrow it  will be roared through the countryside that your bride ran away  from the Spittal in a gypsy dress, and had to be brought back by  force."

The altercation may have lasted another minute, but the suddenness  with which I learned Babbie's secret had left my ears incapable of  learning more. I daresay the two men started when they found me at  my door, but they did not remember, as few do remember who have  the noisy day to forget it in, how far the voice carries in the  night.

They came as suddenly on me as I on them, for though they had  given unintentional notice of their approach, I had lost sight of  the speakers in their amazing words. Only a moment did young  McKenzie's anxiety to be spokesman give me to regard Lord Rintoul.  I saw that he was a thin man and tall, straight in the figure, but  his head began to sink into his shoulders and not very steady on  them. His teeth had grip of his under-lip, as if this was a method  of controlling his agitation, and he was opening and shutting his  hands restlessly. He had a dog with him which I was to meet again.

"Well met, Mr. Ogilvy," said McKenzie, who knew me slightly,  having once acted as judge at a cock-fight in the school-house.  "We were afraid we should have to rouse you."

"You will step inside?" I asked awkwardly, and while I spoke I was  wondering how long it would be before the earl's excitement broke  out.

"It is not necessary," McKenzie answered hurriedly. "My friend and  I (this is Mr. McClure) have been caught in the mist without a  lamp, and we thought you could perhaps favor us with one."

"Unfortunately I have nothing of the kind," I said, and the state  of mind I was in is shown by my answering seriously.

"Then we must wish you a good-night and manage as best we can," he  said; and then before he could touch, with affected indifference,  on the real object of their visit, the alarmed earl said angrily,  "McKenzie, no more of this."

"No more of this delay, do you mean, McClure?" asked McKenzie, and  then, turning to me said, "By the way, Mr. Ogilvy, I think this is  our second meeting to-night. I met you on the road a few hours ago  with your wife. Or was it your daughter?"

"It was neither, Mr. McKenzie," I answered, with the calmness of  one not yet recovered from a shock. "It was a gypsy girl."

"Where is she now?" cried Rintoul feverishly; but McKenzie,  speaking loudly at the same time, tried to drown his interference  as one obliterates writing by writing over it.

"A strange companion for a schoolmaster," he said. "What became of  her?"

"I left her near Caddam Wood," I replied, "but she is probably not  there now"

"Ah, they are strange creatures, these gypsies!" he said, casting  a warning look at the earl. "Now I wonder where she had been bound  for."

"There is a gypsy encampment on the hill," I answered, though I  cannot say why.

"She is there!" exclaimed Rintoul, and was done with me.

"I daresay," McKenzie said indifferently. "However, it is nothing  to us. Good-night, sir."

The earl had started for the trap, but McKenzie's salute reminded  him of a forgotten courtesy, and, despite his agitation, he came  back to apologize. I admired him for this. Then my thoughtlessness  must needs mar all.

"Good-night, Mr. McKenzie," I said. "Good-night, Lord Rintoul."

I had addressed him by his real name. Never a turnip fell from a  bumping, laden cart, and the driver more unconscious of it, than I  that I had dropped that word. I re-entered the house, but had not  reached my chair when McKenzie's hand fell roughly on me, and I  was swung round.

"Mr. Ogilvy," he said, the more savagely I doubt not because his  passions had been chained so long, "you know more than you would  have us think. Beware, sir, of recognising that gypsy should you  ever see her again in different attire. I advise you to have  forgotten this night when you waken to-morrow morning."

With a menacing gesture he left me, and I sank into a chair, glad  to lose sight of the glowering eyes with which he had pinned me to  the wall. I did not hear the trap cross the ford and renew its  journey. When I looked out next, the night had fallen very dark,  and the glen was so deathly in its drowsiness that I thought not  even the cry of murder could tear its eyes open.

The earl and McKenzie would be some distance still from the hill  when the office-bearers had scoured it in vain for their minister.  The gypsies, now dancing round their fires to music that, on  ordinary occasions, Lang Tammas would have stopped by using his  fists to the glory of God, had seen no minister, they said, and  disbelieved in the existence of the mysterious Egyptian.

"Liars they are to trade," Spens declared to his companions, "but  now and again they speak truth, like a standing clock, and I'm  beginning to think the minister's lassie was invented in the  square."

"Not so," said the precentor, "for we saw her oursel's a short  year syne, and Hendry Munn there allows there's townsfolk that hae  passed her in the glen mair recently."

"I only allowed," Hendry said cautiously, "that some sic talk had  shot up sudden-like in the town. Them that pretends they saw her  says that she joukit quick out o' sicht."

"Ay, and there's another quirk in that," responded the suspicious  precentor.

"I'se uphaud the minister's sitting in the manse in his slippers  by this time," Hendry said.

"I'm willing," replied Whamond, "to gang back and speir, or to  search Caddam next; but let the matter drop I winna, though I ken  you're a' awid to be hame now."

"And naturally," retorted Tosh, "for the nicht's coming on as  black as pick, and by the time we're at Caddam we'll no even see  the trees."

Toward Caddam, nevertheless, they advanced, hearing nothing but a  distant wind and the whish of their legs in the broom.

"Whaur's John Spens?" Hendry said suddenly.

They turned back and found Spens rooted to the ground, as a boy  becomes motionless when he thinks he is within arm's reach of a  nest and the bird sitting on the eggs.

"What do you see, man?" Hendry whispered.

"As sure as death," answered Spens, awe-struck, "I felt a drap o'  rain."

"It's no rain we're here to look for," said the precentor.

"Peter Tosh," cried Spens, "it was a drap! Oh, Peter! how are you  looking at me so queer, Peter, when you should be thanking the  Lord for the promise that's in that drap?"

"Come away," Whamond said, impatiently; "but Spens answered, "No  till I've offered up a prayer for the promise that's in that drap.  Peter Tosh, you've forgotten to take off your bonnet."

"Think twice, John Spens," gasped Tosh, "afore you pray for rain  this nicht."

The others thought him crazy, but he went on, with a catch in his  voice:

"I felt a drap o' rain mysel', just afore it came on dark so  hurried, and my first impulse was to wish that I could carry that  drap about wi' me and look at it. But, John Spens, when I looked  up I saw sic a change running ower the sky that I thocht hell had  taken the place o' heaven, and that there was waterspouts  gathering therein for the drowning o' the world."

"There's no water in hell," the precentor said grimly.

"Genesis ix.," said Spens, "verses 8 to 17. Ay, but, Peter, you've  startled me, and I'm thinking we should be stepping hame. Is that  a licht?"

"It'll be in Nanny Webster's," Hendry said, after they had all  regarded the light.

"I never heard that Nanny needed a candle to licht her to her  bed," the precentor muttered.

"She was awa to meet Sanders the day as he came out o' the  Tilliedrum gaol," Spens remembered, "and I daresay the licht means  they're hame again."

"It's well kent--" began Hendry, and would have recalled his  words.

Hendry Munn, "cried the precentor," if you hae minded onything  that may help us, out wi't."

"I was just minding," the kirk officer answered reluctantly, "that  Nanny allows it's Mr. Dishart that has been keeping her frae the  poorhouse. You canna censure him for that, Tammas."

"Can I no?" retorted Whamond. "What business has he to befriend a  woman that belongs to another denomination? I'll see to the bottom  o' that this nicht. Lads, follow me to Nanny's, and dinna be  surprised if we find baith the minister and the Egyptian there."

They had not advanced many yards when Spens jumped to the side,  crying, "Be wary, that's no the wind; it's a machine!"

Immediately the doctor's dogcart was close to them, with Rob Dow  for its only occupant. He was driving slowly, or Whamond could not  have escaped the horse's hoofs.

"Is that you, Rob Dow?" said the precentor sourly. "I tell you,  you'll be gaoled for stealing the doctor's machine."

"The Hielandman wasna muckle hurt, Rob," Hendry said, more good-  naturedly.

"I ken that," replied Rob, scowling at the four of them. "What are  you doing here on sic a nicht?"

"Do you see anything strange in the nicht, Rob?" Tosh asked  apprehensively.

"It's setting to rain," Dow replied. "I dinna see it, but I feel  it."

"Ay," said Tosh, eagerly, "but will it be a saft, cowdie sweet  ding-on?"

"Let the heavens open if they will," interposed Spens recklessly.  "I would swap the drought for rain, though it comes down in a  sheet as in the year twelve."

"And like a sheet it'll come," replied Dow, "and the deil'll blaw  it about wi' his biggest bellowses."

Tosh shivered, but Whamond shook him roughly, saying--

"Keep your oaths to yoursel', Rob Dow, and tell me, hae you seen  Mr. Dishart?"

"I hinna," Rob answered curtly, preparing to drive on.

"Nor the lassie they call the Egyptian?"

Rob leaped from the dogcart, crying, "What does that mean?"

"Hands off," said the precentor, retreating from him. "It means  that Mr. Dishart neglected the prayer-meeting this nicht to  philander after that heathen woman."

"We're no sure o't, Tammas," remonstrated the kirk officer. Dow  stood quite still. "I believe Rob kens it's true," Hendry added  sadly, "or he would hae flown at your throat, Tammas Whamond, for  saying these words."

Even this did not rouse Dow.

"Rob doesna worship the minister as he used to do," said Spens.

"And what for no?" cried the precentor. "Rob Dow, is it because  you've found out about this woman?"

"You're a pack o' liars," roared Rob, desperately, "and if you say  again that ony wandering hussy has haud o' the minister, I'll let  you see whether I can loup at throats."

"You'll swear by the Book." asked Whamond, relentlessly, "that  you've seen neither o' them this nicht, nor them thegither at any  time?"

"I so swear by the Book," answered poor loyal Rob. "But what makes  you look for Mr. Dishart here?" he demanded, with an uneasy look  at the light in the mudhouse.

"Go hame," replied the precentor, "and deliver up the machine you  stole, and leave this Session to do its duty. John, we maun fathom  the meaning o' that licht."

Dow started, and was probably at that moment within an ace of  felling Whamond.

"I'll come wi' you," he said, hunting in his mind for a better way  of helping Gavin.

They were at Nanny's garden, but in the darkness Whamond could not  find the gate. Rob climbed the paling, and was at once lost sight  of. Then they saw his head obscure the window. They did not,  however, hear the groan that startled Babbie.

"There's nobody there," he said, coming back, "but Nanny and  Sanders. You'll mind Sanders was to be freed the day."

"I'll go in and see Sanders," said Hendry, but the precentor  pulled him back, saying, "You'll do nothing o' the kind, Hendry  Munn; you'll come awa wi' me now to the manse."

"It's mair than me and Peter'll do, then," said Spens, who had  been consulting with the other farmer. "We're gaun as straucht  hame as the darkness 'll let us."

With few more words the Session parted, Spens and Tosh setting off  for their farms, and Hendry accompanying the precentor. No one  will ever know where Dow went. I can fancy him, however, returning  to the wood, and there drawing rein. I can fancy his mind made up  to watch the mudhouse until Gavin and the gypsy separated, and  then pounce upon her. I daresay his whole plot could be condensed  into a sentence, "If she's got rid o' this nicht, we may cheat the  Session yet," But this is mere surmise. All I know is that he  waited near Nanny's house, and by and by heard another trap coming  up Windyghoul. That was just before the ten o'clock bell began to  ring.

CHAPTER XXXII.   - LEADING SWIFTLY TO THE APPALLING MARRIAGE.

The little minister bowed his head in assent when Babbie's cry,  "Oh, Gavin, do you?" leapt in front of her unselfish wish that he  should care for her no more.

"But that matters very little now," he said.

She was his to do with as he willed; and, perhaps, the joy of  knowing herself loved still, begot a wild hope that he would  refuse to give her up. If so, these words laid it low, but even  the sentence they passed upon her could not kill the self-respect  that would be hers henceforth. "That matters very little now," the  man said, but to the woman it seemed to matter more than anything  else in the world.

Throughout the remainder of this interview until the end came,  Gavin never faltered. His duty and hers lay so plainly before him  that there could be no straying from it. Did Babbie think him  strangely calm? At the Glen Quharity gathering I once saw Rob  Angus lift a boulder with such apparent ease that its weight was  discredited, until the cry arose that the effort had dislocated  his arm. Perhaps Gavin's quietness deceived the Egyptian  similarly. Had he stamped, she might have understood better what  he suffered, standing there on the hot embers of his passion.

"We must try to make amends now," he said gravely, "for the wrong  we have done."

"The wrong I have done," she said, correcting him. "You will make  it harder for me if you blame yourself. How vile I was in those  days!"

"Those days," she called them, they seemed so far away.

"Do not cry, Babbie," Gavin replied, gently. "He knew what you  were, and why, and He pities you. 'For His anger endureth but a  moment: in His favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but  joy cometh in the morning.'"

"Not to me."

"Yes, to you," he answered. "Babbie, you will return to the  Spittal now, and tell Lord Rintoul everything."

"If you wish it."

"Not because I wish it, but because it is right. He must be told  that you do not love him."

"I never pretended to him that I did," Babbie said, looking up.  "Oh," she added, with emphasis, "he knows that. He thinks me  incapable of caring for any one."

"And that is why he must be told of me," Gavin replied. "You are  no longer the woman you were, Babbie, and you know it, and I know  it, but he does not know it. He shall know it before he decides  whether he is to marry you."

Babbie looked at Gavin, and wondered he did not see that this  decision lay with him.

"Nevertheless," she said, "the wedding will take place to-morrow:  if it did not, Lord Rintoul would be the scorn of his friends."

"If it does," the minister answered, "he will be the scorn of  himself. Babbie, there is a chance."

"There is no chance," she told him. "I shall be back at the  Spittal without any one's knowing of my absence, and when I begin  to tell him of you, he will tremble, lest it means my refusal to  marry him; when he knows it does not, he will wonder only why I  told him anything."

"He will ask you to take time--"

"No, he will ask me to put on my wedding-dress. You must not think  anything else possible."

"So be it, then," Gavin said firmly.

"Yes, it will be better so," Babbie answered, and then, seeing him  misunderstand her meaning, exclaimed reproachfully, "I was not  thinking of myself. In the time to come, whatever be my lot, I  shall have the one consolation, that this is best for you. Think  of your mother."

"She will love you," Gavin said, "when I tell her of you."

"Yes," said Babbie, wringing her hands; "she will almost love me,  but for what? For not marrying you. That is the only reason any  one in Thrums will have for wishing me well."

"No others," Gavin answered, "will ever know why I remained  unmarried."

"Will you never marry?" Babbie asked, exultingly. "Ah!" she cried,  ashamed, "but you must."

"Never."

Well, many a man and many a woman has made that vow in similar  circumstances, and not all have kept it. But shall we who are old  smile cynically at the brief and burning passion of the young?  "The day," you say, "will come when--" Good sir, hold your peace.  Their agony was great and now is dead, and, maybe, they have  forgotten where it lies buried; but dare you answer lightly when I  ask you which of these things is saddest?

Babbie believed his "Never," and, doubtless, thought no worse of  him for it; but she saw no way of comforting him save by  disparagement of herself.

"You must think of your congregation," she said. "A minister with  a gypsy wife--"

"Would have knocked them about with a flail," Gavin interposed,  showing his teeth at the thought of the precentor, "until they did  her reverence."

She shook her head, and told him of her meeting with Micah Dow. It  silenced him; not, however, on account of its pathos, as she  thought, but because it interpreted the riddle of Rob's behavior.

"Nevertheless," he said ultimately, "my duty is not to do what is  right in my people's eyes, but what seems right in my own."

Babbie had not heard him.

"I saw a face at the window just now," she whispered, drawing  closer to him.

"There was no face there; the very thought of Rob Dow raises him  before you," Gavin answered reassuringly, though Rob was nearer at  that moment than either of them thought.

"I must go away at once," she said, still with her eyes in the  window. "No, no, you shall not come or stay with me; it is you who  are in danger."

"Do not fear for me."

"I must, if you will not. Before you came in, did I not hear you  speak of a meeting you had to attend to-night?"

"My pray--" His teeth met on the word; so abruptly did it conjure  up the forgotten prayer-meeting that before the shock could reach  his mind he stood motionless, listening for the bell. For one  instant all that had taken place since he last heard it might have  happened between two of its tinkles; Babbie passed from before him  like a figure in a panorama, and he saw, instead, a congregation  in their pews.

"What do you see?" Babbie cried in alarm, for he seemed to be  gazing at the window.

"Only you," he replied, himself again; "I am coming with you."

"You must let me go alone," she entreated; "if not for your own  safety"--but it was only him she considered--"then for the sake of  Lord Rintoul. Were you and I to be seen together now, his name and  mine might suffer."

It was an argument the minister could not answer save by putting  his hands over his face; his distress made Babbie strong; she  moved to the door, trying to smile.

"Go, Babbie!" Gavin said, controlling his voice, though it had  been a smile more pitiful than her tears. "God has you in His  keeping; it is not His will to give me this to bear for you."

They were now in the garden.

"Do not think of me as unhappy," she said; "it will be happiness  to me to try to be all you would have me be."

He ought to have corrected her. "All that God would have me be,"  is what she should have said. But he only replied, "You will be a  good woman, and none such can be altogether unhappy; God sees to  that."

He might have kissed her, and perhaps she thought so.

"I am--I am going now, dear," she said, and came back a step  because he did not answer; then she went on, and was out of his  sight at three yards' distance. Neither of them heard the  approaching dogcart.

"You see, I am bearing it quite cheerfully," she said. "I shall  have everything a woman loves; do not grieve for me so much."

Gavin dared not speak nor move. Never had he found life so hard;  but he was fighting with the ignoble in himself, and winning. She  opened the gate, and it might have been a signal to the dogcart to  stop. They both heard a dog barking, and then the voice of Lord  Rintoul:

"That is a light in the window. Jump down, McKenzie, and inquire."

Gavin took one step nearer Babbie and stopped. He did not see how  all her courage went from her, so that her knees yielded, and she  held out her arms to him, but he heard a great sob and then his  name.

"Gavin, I am afraid."

Gavin understood now, and I say he would have been no man to leave  her after that; only a moment was allowed him, and it was their  last chance on earth. He took it. His arm went round his beloved,  and he drew her away from Nanny's.

McKenzie found both house and garden empty.

"And yet," he said, "I swear some one passed the window as we  sighted it."

"Waste no more time," cried the impatient earl. "We must be very  near the hill now. You will have to lead the horse, McKenzie, in  this darkness; the dog may find the way through the broom for us."

"The dog has run on," McKenzie replied, now in an evil temper.  "Who knows, it may be with her now? So we must feel our way  cautiously; there is no call for capsizing the trap in our haste."  But there was call for haste if they were to reach the gypsy  encampment before Gavin and Babbie were made man and wife over the  tongs.

The Spittal dogcart rocked as it dragged its way through the  broom. Rob Dow followed. The ten o'clock bell began to ring.

CHAPTER XXXIII.   - WHILE THE TEN O'CLOCK BELL WAS RINGING.

In the square and wynds--weavers in groups:

"No, no, Davit, Mr. Dishart hadna felt the blow the piper gave him  till he ascended the pulpit to conduct the prayer-meeting for  rain, and then he fainted awa. Tammas Whamond and Peter Tosh  carried him to the Session-house. Ay, an awful scene."

"How did the minister no come to the meeting? I wonder how you  could expect it, Snecky, and his mother taen so suddenly ill; he's  at her bedside, but the doctor has little hope."

"This is what has occurred, Tailor: Mr. Dishart never got the  length of the pulpit. He fell in a swound on the vestry floor.  What caused it? Oh, nothing but the heat. Thrums is so dry that  one spark would set it in a blaze."

"I canna get at the richts o' what keeped him frae the meeting,  Femie, but it had something to do wi' an Egyptian on the hill.  Very like he had been trying to stop the gypsy marriage there. I  gaed to the manse to speir at Jean what was wrang, but I'm  thinking I telled her mair than she could tell me."

"Man, man, Andrew, the wite o't lies wi' Peter Tosh. He thocht we  was to hae sic a terrible rain that he implored the minister no to  pray for it, and so angry was Mr. Dishart that he ordered the  whole Session out o' the kirk. I saw them in Couthie's close, and  michty dour they looked."

"Yes, as sure as death, Tammas Whamond locked the kirk-door in Mr.  Dishart's face."

"I'm a' shaking! And small wonder, Marget, when I've heard this  minute that Mr. Dishart's been struck by lichtning while looking  for Rob Dow. He's no killed, but, woe's me! they say he'll never  preach again."

"Nothing o' the kind. It was Rob that the lichtning struck dead in  the doctor's machine. The horse wasna touched; it came tearing  down the Roods wi' the corpse sitting in the machine like a living  man."

"What are you listening to, woman? Is it to a dog barking? I've  heard it this while, but it's far awa."

In the manse kitchen:

"Jean, did you not hear me ring? I want you to--Why are you  staring out at the window, Jean?"

"I--I was just hearkening to the ten o'clock bell, ma'am."

"I never saw you doing nothing before! Put the heater in the fire,  Jean. I want to iron the minister's neckcloths. The prayer-meeting  is long in coming out, is it not?"

"The--the drouth, ma'am, has been so cruel hard."

"And, to my shame, I am so comfortable that I almost forgot how  others are suffering. But my son never forgets, Jean. You are not  crying, are you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Bring the iron to the parlor, then. And if the minis--Why did you  start, Jean? I only heard a dog barking."

"I thocht, ma'am--at first I thocht it was Mr. Dishart opening the  door. Ay, it's just a dog; some gypsy dog on the hill, I'm  thinking, for sound would carry far the nicht."

"Even you, Jean, are nervous at nights, I see, if there is no man  in the house. We shall hear no more distant dogs barking, I  warrant, when the minister comes home."

"When he comes home, ma'am."

On the middle of a hill--a man and a woman:

"Courage, beloved; we are nearly there."

"But, Gavin, I cannot see the encampment."

"The night is too dark."

"But the gypsy fires?"

"They are in the Toad's-hole."

"Listen to that dog barking."

"There are several dogs at the encampment, Babbie."

"There is one behind us. See, there it is!"

"I have driven it away, dear. You are trembling."

"What we are doing frightens me, Gavin. It is at your heels  again!"

"It seems to know you."

"Oh, Gavin, it is Lord Rintoul's collie Snap. It will bite you."

"No, I have driven it back again. Probably the earl is following  us."

"Gavin, I cannot go on with this."

"Quicker, Babbie."

"Leave me, dear, and save yourself."

"Lean on me, Babbie."

"Oh, Gavin, is there no way but this?"

"No sure way."

"Even though we are married to-night--"

"We shall be maried in five minutes, and then, whatever befall, he  cannot have you."

"But after?"

"I will take you straight to the manse, to my mother."

"Were it not for that dog, I should think we were alone on the  hill."

"But we are not. See, there are the gypsy fires."

On the west side of the hill--two figures:

"Tammas, Tammas Whamond, I've lost you. Should we gang to the  manse down the fields?"

"Wheesht, Hendry!"

"What are you listening for?"

"I heard a dog barking."

"Only a gypsy dog, Tammas, barking at the coming storm."

"The gypsy dogs are all tied up, and this one's atween us and the  Toad's-hole. What was that?"

"It was nothing but the rubbing of the branches in the cemetery on  ane another. It's said, trees mak' that fearsome sound when  they're terrified."

"It was a dog barking at somebody that's stoning it. I ken that  sound, Hendry Munn."

"May I die the death, Tammas Whamond, if a great drap o' rain  didna strike me the now, and I swear it was warm. I'm for running  hame."

"I'm for seeing who drove awa that dog. Come back wi' me, Hendry."

"I winna. There's no a soul on the hill but you and me and thae  daffing and drinking gypsies. How do you no answer me, Tammas?  Hie, Tammas Whamond, whaur are you? He's gone! Ay, then I'll mak'  tracks hame."

In the broom--a dogcart:

"Do you see nothing yet, McKenzie?"

"Scarce the broom at my knees, Rintoul. There is not a light on  the hill."

"McKenzie, can that schoolmaster have deceived us?"

"It is probable."

"Urge on the horse, however. There is a road through the broom, I  know. Have we stuck again?"

"Rintoul, she is not here. I promised to help you to bring her  back to the Spittal before this escapade became known, but we have  failed to find her. If she is to be saved, it must be by herself.  I daresay she has returned already. Let me turn the horse's head.  There is a storm brewing."

"I will search this gypsy encampment first, if it is on the hill.  Hark! that was a dog's bark. Yes, it is Snap; but he would not  bark at nothing. Why do you look behind you so often, McZenzie?"

"For some time, Rintoul, it has seemed to me that we are being  followed. Listen!"

"I hear nothing. At last, McKenzie, at last, we are out of the  broom."

"And as I live, Rintoul, I see the gypsy lights!"

It might have been a lantern that was flashed across the hill.  Then all that part of the world went suddenly on fire. Everything  was horribly distinct in that white light. The firs of Caddam were  so near that it seemed to have arrested them in a silent march  upon the hill. The grass would not hide a pebble. The ground was  scored with shadows of men and things. Twice the light flickered  and recovered itself. A red serpent shot across it, and then again  black night fell.

The hill had been illumined thus for nearly half a minute. During  that time not even a dog stirred. The shadows of human beings lay  on the ground as motionless as logs. What had been revealed seemed  less a gypsy marriage than a picture. Or was it that during the  ceremony every person on the hill had been turned into stone? The  gypsy king, with his arm upraised, had not had time to let it  fall. The men and women behind him had their mouths open, as if  struck when on the point of calling out. Lord Rintoul had risen in  the dogcart and was leaning forward. One of McKenzie's feet was on  the shaft. The man crouching in the dogcart's wake had flung up  his hands to protect his face. The precentor, his neck  outstretched, had a hand on each knee. All eyes were fixed, as in  the death glare, on Gavin and Babbie, who stood before the king,  their hands clasped over the tongs. Fear was petrified on the  woman's face, determination on the man's.

They were all released by the crack of the thunder, but for  another moment none could have swaggered.

"That was Lord Rintoul in the dogcart," Babbie whispered, drawing  in her breath.

"Yes, dear," Gavin answered resolutely, "and now is the time for  me to have my first and last talk with him. Remain here, Babbie.  Do not move till I come back."

"But, Gavin, he has seen. I fear him still."

"He cannot touch you now, Babbie. You are my wife."

In the vivid light Gavin had thought the dogcart much nearer than  it was. He called Lord Rintoul's name, but got no answer. There  were shouts behind, gypsies running from the coming rain, dogs  whining, but silence in front. The minister moved on some paces.  Away to the left he heard voices--

"Who was the man, McKenzie?"

"My lord, I have lost sight of you. This is not the way to the  camp."

"Tell me, McKenzie, that you did not see what I saw."

"Rintoul, I beseech you to turn back. We are too late."

"We are not too late."

Gavin broke through the darkness between them and him, but they  were gone. He called to them, and stopped to listen to their feet.

"Is that you, Gavin?" Babbie asked just then.

For reply, the man who had crept up to her clapped his hand upon  her mouth. Only the beginning of a scream escaped from her. A  strong arm drove her quickly southward.

Gavin heard her cry, and ran back to the encampment. Babbie was  gone. None of the gypsies had seen her since the darkness cause  back. He rushed hither and thither with a torch that only showed  his distracted face to others. He flung up his arms in appeal for  another moment of light; then he heard Babbie scream again, and  this time it was from a distance. He dashed after her; he heard a  trap speeding down the green sward through the broom.

Lord Rintoul had kidnapped Babbie. Gavin had no other thought as  he ran after the dogcart from which the cry had come. The earl's  dog followed him, snapping at his heels. The rain began.

CHAPTER XXXIV.   - THE GREAT RAIN.

Gavin passed on through Windyghoul, thinking in his frenzy that he  still heard the trap. In a rain that came down like iron rods  every other sound was beaten dead. He slipped, and before he could  regain his feet the dog bit him. To protect himself from dikes and  trees and other horrors of the darkness he held his arm before  him, but soon it was driven to his side. Wet whips cut his brow so  that he had to protect it with his hands, until it had to bear the  lash again, for they would not. Now he had forced up his knees,  and would have succumbed but for a dread of being pinned to the  earth. This fight between the man and the rain went on all night,  and long before it ended the man was past the power of thinking.

In the ringing of the ten o'clock bell Gavin had lived the seventh  part of a man's natural life. Only action was required of him.  That accomplished, his mind had begun to work again, when suddenly  the loss of Babbie stopped it, as we may put out a fire with a  great coal. The last thing he had reflected about was a dogcart in  motion, and, consequently, this idea clung to him. His church, his  mother, were lost knowledge of, but still he seemed to hear the  trap in front.

The rain increased in violence, appalling even those who heard it  from under cover. However rain may storm, though it be an army of  archers battering roofs and windows, it is only terrifying when  the noise swells every instant. In those hours of darkness it  again and again grew in force and doubled its fury, and was  louder, louder, and louder, until its next attack was to be more  than men and women could listen to. They held each other's hands  and stood waiting. Then abruptly it abated, and people could  speak. I believe a rain that became heavier every second for ten  minutes would drive many listeners mad. Gavin was in it on a night  that tried us repeatedly for quite half that time.

By and by even the vision of Babbie in the dogcart was blotted  out. If nothing had taken its place, he would not have gone on  probably; and had he turned back objectless, his strength would  have succumbed to the rain. Now he saw Babbie and Rintoul being  married by a minister who was himself, and there was a fair  company looking on, and always when he was on the point of  shouting to himself, whom he could see clearly, that this woman  was already married, the rain obscured his words and the light  went out. Presently the ceremony began again, always to stop at  the same point. He saw it in the lightning-flash that had startled  the hill. It gave him courage to fight his way onward, because he  thought he must be heard if he could draw nearer to the company.

A regiment of cavalry began to trouble him. He heard it advancing  from the Spittal, but was not dismayed, for it was, as yet, far  distant. The horsemen came thundering on, filling the whole glen  of Quharity. Now he knew that they had been sent out to ride him  down. He paused in dread, until they had swept past him. They came  back to look for him, riding more furiously than ever, and always  missed him, yet his fears of the next time were not lessened. They  were only the rain.

All through the night the dog followed him. He would forget it for  a time, and then it would be so close that he could see it dimly.  He never heard it bark, but it snapped at him, and a grin had  become the expression of its face. He stoned it, he even flung  himself at it, he addressed it in caressing tones, and always with  the result that it disappeared, to come back presently.

He found himself walking in a lake, and now even the instinct of  self-preservation must have been flickering, for he waded on,  rejoicing merely in getting rid of the dog. Something in the water  rose and struck him. Instead of stupefying him, the blow brought  him to his senses, and he struggled for his life. The ground  slipped beneath his feet many times, but at last he was out of the  water. That he was out in a flood he did not realize; yet he now  acted like one in full possession of his faculties. When his feet  sank in water, he drew back; and many times he sought shelter  behind banks and rocks, first testing their firmness with his  hands. Once a torrent of stones, earth, and heather carried him  down a hillside until he struck against a tree. He twined his arms  round it, and had just done so when it fell with him. After that,  when he touched trees growing in water, he fled from them, thus  probably saving himself from death.

What he heard now might have been the roll and crack of the  thunder. It sounded in his ear like nothing else. But it was  really something that swept down the hill in roaring spouts of  water, and it passed on both sides of him so that at one moment,  had he paused, it would have crashed into him, and at another he  was only saved by stopping. He felt that the struggle in the dark  was to go on till the crack of doom.

Then he cast himself upon the ground. It moved beneath him like  some great animal, and he rose and stole away from it. Several  times did this happen. The stones against which his feet struck  seemed to acquire life from his touch. So strong had he become, or  so weak all other things, that whatever clump he laid hands on by  which to pull himself out of the water was at once rooted up.

The daylight would not come. He longed passionately for it. He  tried to remember what it was like, and could not; he had been  blind so long. It was away in front somewhere, and he was  struggling to overtake it. He expected to see it from a dark  place, when he would rush forward to bathe his arms in it, and  then the elements that were searching the world for him would see  him and he would perish. But death did not seem too great a  penalty to pay for light.

And at last day did come back, gray and drear. He saw suddenly  once more. I think he must have been wandering the glen with his  eyes shut, as one does shut them involuntarily against the hidden  dangers of black night. How different was daylight from what he  had expected! He looked, and then shut his dazed eyes again, for  the darkness was less horrible than the day. Had he indeed seen,  or only dreamed that he saw? Once more he looked to see what the  world was like; and the sight that met his eyes was so mournful  that he who had fought through the long night now sank hopeless  and helpless among the heather. The dog was not far away, and it,  too, lost heart. Gavin held out his hand, and Snap crept timidly  toward him. He unloosened his coat, and the dog nestled against  him, cowed and shivering, hiding its head from the day, Thus they  lay, and the rain beat upon them.

CHAPTER XXXV.   - THE GLEN AT BREAK OF DAY.

My first intimation that the burns were in flood came from Waster  Lunny, close on the strike of ten o'clock. This was some minutes  before they had any rain in Thrums. I was in the school-house, now  piecing together the puzzle Lord Rintoul had left with me, and  anon starting upright as McKenzie's hand seemed to tighten on my  arm. Waster Lunny had been whistling to me (with his fingers in  his mouth) for some time before I heard him and hurried out. I was  surprised and pleased, knowing no better, to be met on the  threshold by a whisk of rain.

The night was not then so dark but that when I reached the  Quharity I could see the farmer take shape on the other side of  it. He wanted me to exult with him, I thought, in the end of the  drought, and I shouted that I would fling him the stilts.

"It's yoursel' that wants them," he answered excitedly, "if you're  fleid to be left alone in the school-house the nicht. Do you hear  me, dominie? There has been frichtsome rain among the hills, and  the Bog burn is coming down like a sea. It has carried awa the  miller's brig, and the steading o' Muckle Pirley is standing three  feet in water."

"You're dreaming, man," I roared back, but beside his news he held  my doubts of no account.

"The Retery's in flood," he went on, "and running wild through  Hazel Wood; T'nowdunnie's tattie field's out o' sicht, and at the  Kirkton they're fleid they've lost twa kye."

"There has been no rain here," I stammered, incredulously.

"It's coming now." he replied. "And listen: the story's out that  the Backbone has fallen into the loch. You had better cross,  dominie, and thole out the nicht wi' us."

The Backbone was a piece of mountain-side overhanging a loch among  the hills, and legend said that it would one day fall forward and  squirt all the water into the glen. Something of the kind had  happened, but I did not believe it then; with little wit I pointed  to the shallow Quharity.

"It may come down at any minute," the farmer answered, "and syne,  mind you, you'll be five miles frae Waster Lunny, for there'll be  no crossing but by the Brig o' March. If you winna come, I maun  awa back. I mauna bide langer on the wrang side o' the Moss ditch,  though it has been as dry this month back as a tabbit's roady. But  if you--" His voice changed. "God's sake, man," he cried, "you're  ower late. Look at that! Dinna look--run, run!"

If I had not run before he bade me, I might never have run again  on earth. I had seen a great shadowy yellow river come riding down  the Quharity. I sprang from it for my life; and when next I looked  behind, it was upon a turbulent loch, the further bank lost in  darkness. I was about to shout to Waster Lunny, when a monster  rose in the torrent between me and the spot where he had stood. It  frightened me to silence until it fell, when I knew it was but a  tree that had been flung on end by the flood. For a time there was  no answer to my cries, and I thought the farmer had been swept  away. Then I heard his whistle, and back I ran recklessly through  the thickening darkness to the school-house. When I saw the tree  rise, I had been on ground hardly wet as yet with the rain; but by  the time Waster Lunny sent that reassuring whistle to me I was  ankle-deep in water, and the rain was coming down like hail. I saw  no lightning.

For the rest of the night I was only out once, when I succeeded in  reaching the hen-house and brought all my fowls safely to the  kitchen, except a hen which would not rise off her young. Between  us we had the kitchen floor, a pool of water; and the rain had put  out my fires already, as effectually as if it had been an  overturned broth-pot. That I never took off my clothes that night  I need not say, though of what was happening in the glen I could  only guess. A flutter against my window now and again, when the  rain had abated, told me of another bird that had flown there to  die; and with Waster Lunny, I kept up communication by waving a  light, to which he replied in a similar manner. Before morning,  however, he ceased to answer my signals, and I feared some  catastrophe had occurred at the farm. As it turned out, the family  was fighting with the flood for the year's shearing of wool, half  of which eventually went down the waters, with the wool-shed on  top of it.

The school-house stands too high to fear any flood, but there were  moments when I thought the rain would master it. Not only the  windows and the roof were rattling then, but all the walls, and I  was like one in a great drum. When the rain was doing its utmost,  I heard no other sound; but when the lull came, there was the wash  of a heavy river, or a crack as of artillery that told of  landslips, or the plaintive cry of the peesweep as it rose in the  air, trying to entice the waters away from its nest.

It was a dreary scene that met my gaze at break of day. Already  the Quharity had risen six feet, and in many parts of the glen it  was two hundred yards wide. Waster Lunny's corn-field looked like  a bog grown over with rushes, and what had been his turnips had  become a lake with small islands in it. No dike stood whole except  one that the farmer, unaided, had built in a straight line from  the road to the top of Mount Bare, and my own, the further end of  which dipped in water. Of the plot of firs planted fifty years  earlier to help on Waster Lunny's crops, only a triangle had  withstood the night.

Even with the aid of my field-glass I could not estimate the  damage on more distant farms, for the rain, though now thin and  soft, as it continued for six days, was still heavy and of a brown  color. After breakfast--which was interrupted by my bantam cock's  twice spilling my milk--saw Waster Lunny and his son, Matthew,  running towards the shepherd's house with ropes in their hands.  The house, I thought, must be in the midst beyond; and then I  sickened, knowing all at once that it should be on this side of  the mist. When I had nerve to look again, I saw that though the  roof had fallen in, the shepherd was astride one of the walls,  from which he was dragged presently through the water by the help  of the ropes. I remember noticing that he returned to his house  with the rope still about him. and concluded that he had gone back  to save some of his furniture. I was wrong, however. There was too  much to be done at the farm to allow this, but Waster Lunny had  consented to Duncan's forcing his way back to the shieling to stop  the clock. To both men it seemed horrible to let a clock go on  ticking in a deserted house.

Having seen this rescue accomplished, I was letting my glass roam  in the opposite direction, when one of its shakes brought into  view something on my own side of the river. I looked at it long,  and saw it move slightly. Was it a human being? No, it was a dog.  No, it was a dog and something else. I hurried out to see more  clearly, and after a first glance the glass shook so in my hands  that I had to rest it on the dike. For a full minute, I daresay,  did I look through the glass without blinking, and then I needed  to look no more, That black patch was, indeed, Gavin.

He lay quite near the school-house, but I had to make a circuit of  half a mile to reach him. It was pitiful to see the dog doing its  best to come to me, and falling every few steps. The poor brute  was discolored almost beyond recognition; and when at last it  reached me, it lay down at my feet and licked them. I stepped over  it and ran on recklessly to Gavin. At first I thought he was dead.  If tears rolled down my cheeks, they were not for him.

I was no strong man even in those days, but I carried him to the  school-house, the dog crawling after us. Gavin I put upon my bed,  and I lay down beside him, holding him close to me, that some of  the heat of my body might be taken in by his. When he was able to  look at me, however, it was not with understanding, and in vain  did my anxiety press him with questions. Only now and again would  some word in my speech strike upon his brain and produce at least  an echo. To "Did you meet Lord Rintoul's dogcart?" he sat up,  saying quickly:

"Listen, the dogcart!"

"Egyptian" was not that forenoon among the words he knew, and I  did not think of mentioning "hill." At "rain" he shivered; but  "Spittal" was what told me most.

"He has taken her back," he replied at once, from which I learned  that Gavin now knew as much of Babbie as I did.

I made him as comfortable as possible, and despairing of learning  anything from him in his present state, I let him sleep. Then I  went out into the rain, very anxious, and dreading what he might  have to tell me when he woke. I waded and jumped my way as near to  the farm as I dared go, and Waster Lunny, seeing me, came to the  water's edge. At this part the breadth of the flood was not forty  yards, yet for a time our voices could no more cross its roar than  one may send a snowball through a stone wall. I know not whether  the river then quieted for a space, or if it was only that the  ears grow used to dins as the eyes distinguish the objects in a  room that is at first black to them; but after a little we were  able to shout our remarks across, much as boys fling pebbles, many  to fall into the water, but one occasionally to reach the other  side. Waster Lunny would have talked of the flood, but I had not  come here for that.

"How were you home so early from the prayer-meeting last night?" I  bawled.

"No meeting ... I came straucht hame ... but terrible stories ...  Mr. Dishart," was all I caught after Waster Lunny had flung his  words across a dozen times.

I could not decide whether it would be wise to tell him that Gavin  was in the school-house, and while I hesitated he continued to  shout:

"Some woman ... the Session ... Lang Tammas ... God forbid ...  maun back to the farm ... byre running like a mill-dam."

He signed to me that he must be off, but my signals delayed him,  and after much trouble he got my question, "Any news about Lord  Rintoul?" My curiosity about the earl must have surprised him, but  he answered:

"Marriage is to be the day ... cannon."

I signed that I did not grasp his meaning.

"A cannon is to be fired as soon as they're man and wife," he  bellowed. "We'll hear it."

With that we parted. On my way home, I remember, I stepped on a  brood of drowned partridge. I was only out half an hour, but I had  to wring my clothes as if they were fresh from the tub.

The day wore on, and I did not disturb the sleeper. A dozen times,  I suppose, I had to relight my fire of wet peats and roots; but I  had plenty of time to stare out at the window, plenty of time to  think. Probably Gavin's life depended on his sleeping, but that  was not what kept my hands off him. Knowing so little of what had  happened in Thrums since I left it, I was forced to guess, and my  conclusion was that the earl had gone off with his own, and that  Gavin in a frenzy had followed them. My wisest course, I thought,  was to let him sleep until I heard the cannon, when his struggle  for a wife must end. Fifty times at least did I stand regarding  him as he slept; and if I did not pity his plight sufficiently,  you know the reason. What were Margaret's sufferings at this  moment? Was she wringing her hands for her son lost in the flood,  her son in disgrace with the congregation? By one o'clock no  cannon had sounded, and my suspense had become intolerable. I  shook Gavin awake, and even as I shook him demanded a knowledge of  all that had happened since we parted at Nanny's gate.

"How long ago is that?" he asked, with bewilderment.

"It was last night," I answered. "This morning I found you  senseless on the hillside, and brought you here, to the Glen  Quharity school-house. That dog was with you."

He looked at the dog, but I kept my eyes on him, and I saw  intelligence creep back, like a blush, into his face.

"Now I remember," he said, shuddering. "You have proved yourself  my friend, sir, twice in the four and twenty hours."

"Only once, I fear," I replied gloomily. "I was no friend when I  sent you to the earl's bride last night."

"You know who she is?" he cried, clutching me, and finding it  agony to move his limbs.

"I know now," I said, and had to tell him how I knew before he  would answer another question. Then I became listener, and you who  read know to what alarming story.

"And all that time," I cried reproachfully, when he had done, "you  gave your mother not a thought."

"Not a thought," he answered; and I saw that he pronounced a  harsher sentence on himself than could have come from me. "All  that time!" he repeated, after a moment. "It was only a few  minutes, while the ten o'clock bell was ringing."

"Only a few minutes," I said, "but they changed the channel of the  Quharity, and perhaps they have done not less to you."

"That may be," he answered gravely, "but it is of the present I  must think just now. Mr. Ogilvy, what assurance have I, while  lying here helpless, that the marriage at the Spittal is not going  on?"

"None, I hope," I said to myself, and listened longingly for the  cannon. But to him I only pointed out that no woman need go  through a form of marriage against her will.

"Rintoul carried her off with no possible purport," he said, "but  to set my marriage at defiance, and she has had a conviction  always that to marry me would be to ruin me. It was only in the  shiver Lord Rintoul's voice in the darkness sent through her that  she yielded to my wishes. If she thought that marriage last night  could be annulled by another to-day, she would consent to the  second, I believe, to save me from the effects of the first. You  are incredulous, sir; but you do not know of what sacrifices love  is capable."

Something of that I knew, but I did not tell him. I had seen from  his manner rather than his words that he doubted the validity of  the gypsy marriage, which the king had only consented to celebrate  because Babbie was herself an Egyptian. The ceremony had been  interrupted in the middle.

"It was no marriage," I said, with a confidence I was far from  feeling.

"In the sight of God," he replied excitedly, "we took each other  for man and wife."

I had to hold him down in bed.

"You are too weak to stand, man," I said, "and yet you think you  could start off this minute for the Spittal."

"I must go," he cried. "She is my wife. That impious marriage may  have taken place already."

"Oh, that it had!" was my prayer. "It has not," I said to him. "A  cannon is to be fired immediately after the ceremony, and all the  glen will hear it." I spoke on the impulse, thinking to allay his  desire to be off; but he said, "Then I may yet be in time."  Somewhat cruelly I let him rise, that he might realize his  weakness. Every bone in him cried out at his first step, and he  sank into a chair.

"You will go to the Spittal for me?" he implored.

"I will not," I told him. "You are asking me to fling away my  life."

To prove my words I opened the door, and he saw what the flood was  doing. Nevertheless, he rose and tottered several times across the  room, trying to revive his strength. Though every bit of him was  aching, I saw that he would make the attempt.

"Listen to me," I said. "Lord Rintoul can maintain with some  reason that it was you rather than he who abducted Babbie.  Nevertheless, there will not, I am convinced, be any marriage at  the Spittal to-day, When he carried her off from the Toad's-hole,  he acted under impulses not dissimilar to those that took you to  it. Then, I doubt not, he thought possession was all the law, but  that scene on the hill has staggered him by this morning. Even  though she thinks to save you by marrying him, he will defer his  wedding until he learns the import of yours."

I did not believe in my own reasoning, but I would have said  anything to detain him until that cannon was fired. He seemed to  read my purpose, for he pushed my arguments from him with his  hands, and continued to walk painfully to and fro.

"To defer the wedding," he said, "would be to tell all his friends  of her gypsy origin, and of me. He will risk much to avoid that."

"In any case," I answered, "you must now give some thought to  those you have forgotten, your mother and your church."

"That must come afterwards," he said firmly. "My first duty is to  my wife."

The door swung to sharply just then, and he started. He thought it  was the cannon.

"I wish to God it had been!" I cried, interpreting his thoughts.

"Why do you wish me ill?" he asked.

"Mr. Dishart," I said solemnly, rising and facing him, and  disregarding his question, "if that woman is to be your wife, it  will be at a cost you cannot estimate till you return to Thrums.  Do you think that if your congregation knew of this gypsy marriage  they would have you for their minister for another day? Do you  enjoy the prospect of taking one who might be an earl's wife into  poverty--ay, and disgraceful poverty? Do you know your mother so  little as to think she could survive your shame? Let me warn you,  sir, of what I see. I see another minister in the Auld Licht kirk,  I see you and your wife stoned through our wynds, stoned from  Thrums, as malefactors have--been chased out of it ere now; and as  certainly as I see these things I see a hearse standing at the  manse door, and stern men denying a son's right to help to carry  his mother's coffin to it. Go your way, sir; but first count the  cost."

His face quivered before these blows, but all he said was, "I must  dree my dreed."

"God is merciful," I went on, "and these things need not be. He is  more merciful to you, sir, than to some, for the storm that He  sent to save you is ruining them. And yet the farmers are to-day  thanking Him for every pound of wool, every blade of corn He has  left them, while you turn from Him because He would save you, not  in your way, but in His. It was His hand that stayed your  marriage. He meant Babbie for the earl; and if it is on her part a  loveless match, she only suffers for her own sins. Of that scene  on the hill no one in. Thrums, or in the glen, need ever know.  Rintoul will see to it that the gypsies vanish from these parts  forever, and you may be sure the Spittal will soon be shut up. He  and McKenzie have as much reason as yourself to be silent. You,  sir, must go back to your congregation, who have heard as yet only  vague rumors that your presence will dispel. Even your mother will  remain ignorant of what has happened. Your absence from the  prayer-meeting you can leave to me to explain."

He was so silent that I thought him mine, but his first words  undeceived me.

"I thought I had nowhere so keen a friend," he said; "but, Mr.  Ogilvy, it is devil's work you are pleading. Am I to return to my  people to act a living lie before them to the end of my days? Do  you really think that God devastated a glen to give me a chance of  becoming a villain? No, sir, I am in His hands, and I will do what  I think right."

"You will be dishonored," I said, "in the sight of God and man."

"Not in God's sight," he replied. "It was a sinless marriage, Mr.  Ogilvy, and I do not regret it. God ordained that she and I should  love each other, and He put it into my power to save her from that  man. I took her as my wife before Him, and in His eyes I am her  husband. Knowing that, sir, how could I return to Thrums without  her?"

I had no answer ready for him. I knew that in my grief for  Margaret I had been advocating an unworthy course, but I would not  say so. I went gloomily to the door, and there, presently, his  hand fell on my shoulder.

"Your advice came too late, at any rate," he said. "You forget  that the precentor was on the hill and saw everything."

It was he who had forgotten to tell me this, and to me it was the  most direful news of all.

"My God!" I cried. "He will have gone to your mother and told  her." And straightway I began to lace my boots.

"Where are you going?" he asked, staring at me.

"To Thrums," I answered harshly.

"You said that to venture out into the glen was to court death,"  he reminded me.

"What of that?" I said, and hastily put on my coat.

"Mr. Ogilvy," he cried, "I will not allow you to do this for me."

"For you?" I said bitterly. "It is not for you."

I would have gone at once, but he got in front of me, asking, "Did  you ever know my mother?"

"Long ago," I answered shortly, and he said no more, thinking, I  suppose, that he knew all. He limped to the door with me, and I  had only advanced a few steps when I understood better than before  what were the dangers I was to venture into. Since I spoke to  Waster Lunny the river had risen several feet, and even the  hillocks in his turnip-field were now submerged. The mist was  creeping down the hills. But what warned me most sharply that the  flood was not satisfied yet was the top of the school-house dike;  it was lined with field-mice. I turned back, and Gavin, mistaking  my meaning, said I did wisely.

"I have not changed my mind," I told him, and then had some  difficulty in continuing. "I expect," I said, "to reach Thrums  safely, even though I should be caught in the mist, but I shall  have to go round by the Kelpie brig in order to get across the  river, and it is possible that--that something may befall me."

I have all my life been something of a coward, and my voice shook  when I said this, so that Gavin again entreated me to remain at  the school-house, saying that if I did not he would accompany me.

"And so increase my danger tenfold?" I pointed out. "No, no, Mr.  Dishart, I go alone; and if I can do nothing with the  congregation, I can at least send your mother word that you still  live. But if anything should happen to me, I want you--"

But I could not say what I had come back to say. I had meant to  ask him, in the event of my death, to take a hundred pounds which  were the savings of my life; but now I saw that this might lead to  Margaret's hearing of me, and so I stayed my words. It was bitter  to me this, and yet, after all, a little thing when put beside the  rest.

"Good-by, Mr. Dishart," I said abruptly. I then looked at my desk,  which contained some trifles that were once Margaret's. "Should  anything happen to me," I said, "I want that old desk to be  destroyed unopened."

"Mr. Ogilvy," he answered gently, "you are venturing this because  you loved my mother. If anything does befall you, be assured that  I will tell her what you attempted for her sake."

I believe he thought it was to make some such request that I had  turned back.

"You must tell her nothing about me," I exclaimed, in  consternation. "Swear that my name will never cross your lips  before her. No, that is not enough. You must forget me utterly,  whether I live or die, lest some time you should think of me and  she should read your thoughts. Swear, man!"

"Must this be?" he said, gazing at me.

"Yes," I answered more calmly, "it must be. For nearly a score of  years I have been blotted out of your mother's life, and since she  came to Thrums my one care has been to keep my existence from her.  I have changed my burying-ground even from Thrums to the glen,  lest I should die before her, and she, seeing the hearse go by the  Tenements, might ask, 'Whose funeral is this?'"

In my anxiety to warn him, I had said too much. His face grew  haggard, and there was fear to speak on it; and I saw, I knew,  that some damnable suspicion of Margaret---

"She was my wife!" I cried sharply. "We were married by the  minister of Harvie. You are my son."

CHAPTER XXXVI.   - STORY OF THE DOMINIE.

When I spoke next, I was back in the school-house, sitting there  with my bonnet on my head, Gavin looking at me. We had forgotten  the cannon at last.

In that chair I had anticipated this scene more than once of late.  I had seen that a time might come when Gavin would have to be told  all, and I had even said the words aloud, as if he were indeed  opposite me. So now I was only repeating the tale, and I could  tell it without emotion, because it was nigh nineteen years old;  and I did not look at Gavin, for I knew that his manner of taking  it could bring no change to me.

"Did you never ask your mother," I said, addressing the fire  rather than him, "why you were called Gavin?"

"Yes," he answered, "it was because she thought Gavin a prettier  name than Adam."

"No," I said slowly, "it was because Gavin is my name. You were  called after your father. Do you not remember my taking you one  day to the shore at Harvie to see the fishermen carried to their  boats upon their wives' backs, that they might start dry on their  journey?"

"No," he had to reply. "I remember the women carrying the men  through the water to the boats, but I thought it was my father  who--I mean---"

"I know whom you mean," I said. "That was our last day together,  but you were not three years old. Yet you remembered me when you  came to Thrums. You shake your head, but it is true. Between the  diets of worship that first Sabbath I was introduced to you, and  you must have had some shadowy recollection of my face, for you  asked, 'Surely I saw you in church in the forenoon, Mr. Ogilvy?' I  said 'Yes,' but I had not been in the church in the forenoon. You  have forgotten even that, and yet I treasured it."

I could hear that he was growing impatient, though so far he had  been more indulgent than I had any right to expect.

"It can all be put into a sentence," I said calmly. "Margaret  married Adam Dishart, and afterwards, believing herself a widow,  she married me. You were born, and then Adam Dishart came back."

That is my whole story, and here was I telling it to my son, and  not a tear between us. It ended abruptly, and I fell to mending  the fire.

"When I knew your mother first," I went on, after Gavin had said  some boyish things that were of no avail to me, "I did not think  to end my days as a dominie. I was a student at Aberdeen, with the  ministry in my eye, and sometimes on Saturdays I walked forty  miles to Harvie to go to church with her. She had another lover,  Adam Dishart, a sailor turned fisherman; and while I lingered at  corners, wondering if I could dare to meet her and her mother on  their way to church, he would walk past with them. He was  accompanied always by a lanky black dog, which he had brought from  a foreign country. He never signed for any ship without first  getting permission to take it with him, and in Harvie they said it  did not know the language of the native dogs. I have never known a  man and dog so attached to each other."

"I remember that black dog," Gavin said. "I have spoken of it to  my mother, and she shuddered, as if it had once bitten her."

"While Adam strutted by with them," I continued. "I would hang  back, raging at his assurance or my own timidity; but I lost my  next chance in the same way. In Margaret's presence something came  over me, a kind of dryness in the throat, that made me dumb. I  have known divinity students stricken in the same way, just as  they were giving out their first text. It is no aid in getting a  kirk or wooing a woman.

"If any one in Harvie recalls me now, it is as a hobbledehoy who  strode along the cliffs, shouting Homer at the sea-mews. With all  my learning, I, who gave Margaret the name of Lalage, understood  women less than any fisherman who bandied words with them across a  boat. I remember a Yule night when both Adam and I were at her  mother's cottage, and, as we were leaving, he had the audacity to  kiss Margaret. She ran out of the room, and Adam swaggered off,  and when I recovered from my horror, I apologized for what he had  done. I shall never forget how her mother looked at me, and said,  'Ay, Gavin, I see they dinna teach everything at Aberdeen.' You  will not believe it, but I walked away doubting her meaning. I  thought more of scholarship then than I do now. Adam Dishart  taught me its proper place.

"Well, that is the dull man I was; and yet, though Adam was always  saying and doing the things I was making up my mind to say and do,  I think Margaret cared more for me. Nevertheless, there was  something about him that all women seemed to find lovable, a dash  that made them send him away and then well-nigh run after him. At  any rate, I could have got her after her mother's death if I had  been half a man. But I went back to Aberdeen to write a poem about  her, and while I was at it Adam married her."

I opened my desk and took from it a yellow manuscript.

"Here," I said, "is the poem. You see, I never finished it."

I was fingering the thing grimly when Gavin's eye fell on  something else in the desk. It was an ungainly clasp-knife, as  rusty as if it had spent a winter beneath a hedge.

"I seem to remember that knife," he said.

"Yes," I answered, "you should remember it. Well, after three  months Adam tired of his wife."

I stopped again. This was a story in which only the pauses were  eloquent.

"Perhaps I have no right to say he tired of her. One day, however,  he sauntered away from Harvie whistling, his dog at his heels as  ever, and was not seen again for nearly six years. When I heard of  his disappearance I packed my books in that kist and went to  Harvie, where I opened a school. You see, every one but Margaret  believed that Adam had fallen over the cliffs and been drowned."

"But the dog?" said Gavin.

"We were all sure that, if he had fallen over, it had jumped after  him. The fisher-folk said that he could have left his shadow  behind as easily as it. Yet Margaret thought for long that he had  tired of Harvie merely and gone back to sea, and not until two  years had passed would she marry me. We lived in Adam's house. It  was so near the little school that when I opened the window in  summer-time she could hear the drone of our voices. During the  weeks before you were born I kept that window open all day long,  and often I went to it and waved my hand to her.

"Sometimes, when she was washing or baking, I brought you to the  school. The only quarrel she and I ever had was about my teaching  you the Lord's Prayer in Greek as soon as you could say father and  mother. It was to be a surprise for her on your second birthday.  On that day, while she was ironing, you took hold of her gown to  steady yourself, and began, 'IIater haemon ho en tois ohuranois,'  and to me, behind the door, it was music. But at agiasthaeto, of  which you made two syllables, you cried, and Margaret snatched you  up, thinking this was some new ailment. After I had explained to  her that it was the Lord's Prayer in Greek, she would let me take  you to the school-house no more.

"Not much longer could I have taken you in any case, for already  we are at the day when Adam Dishart came back. It was the 7th of  September, and all the week most of the women in Harvie had been  setting off at dawn to the harvest fields and straggling home at  nights, merry and with yellow corn in their hair. I had sat on in  the school-house that day after my pupils were gone. I still meant  to be a minister, and I was studying Hebrew, and so absorbed in my  book that as the daylight went, I followed it step by step as far  as my window, and there I read, without knowing, until I chanced  to look up, that I had left my desk. I have not opened that book  since.

"From the window I saw you on the waste ground that separated the  school from our home. You were coming to me on your hands and  feet, and stopping now and again to look back at your mother, who  was at the door, laughing and shaking her fist at you. I beckoned  to you, and took the book back to my desk to lock it up. While my  head was inside the desk I heard the school-house door pushed  open, and thinking it was you I smiled, without looking up. Then  something touched my hand, and I still thought it was you; but I  looked down, and I saw Adam Dishart's black dog.

"I did not move. It looked up at me and wagged its tail. Then it  drew back--I suppose because I had no words for it. I watched it  run half-round the room and stop and look at me again. Then it  slunk out.

"All that time one of my hands had been holding the desk open. Now  the lid fell. I put on my bonnet and went to the door. You were  only a few yards away, with flowers in your fist. Margaret was  laughing still. I walked round the school and there was no dog  visible. Margaret nodded to me, meaning that I should bring you  home. You thrust the flowers into my hand, but they fell. I stood  there, dazed.

"I think I walked with you some way across the waste ground. Then  I dropped your hand and strode back to the school. I went down on  my knees, looking for marks of a dog's paws, and I found them.

"When I came out again your mother was no longer at our door, and  you were crying because I had left you. I passed you and walked  straight to the house. Margaret was skinning rushes for wicks.  There must have been fear in my face, for as soon as she saw it  she ran to the door to see if you were still alive. She brought  you in with her, and so had strength to cry, 'What is it? Speak!'

"'Come away,' I said, 'come away,' and I was drawing her to the  door, but she pressed me into a chair. I was up again at once.

"'Margaret,' I said, 'ask no questions. Put on your bonnet, give  me the boy, and let us away.'

"I could not take my eyes off the door, and she was walking to it  to look out when I barred the way with my arm.

"'What have you seen?' she cried; and then, as I only pointed to  her bonnet, she turned to you, and you said, 'Was it the black  dog, father?'

"Gavin, then she knew; and I stood helpless and Watched my wife  grow old. In that moment she lost the sprightliness I loved the  more because I had none of it myself, and the bloom went from her  face never to return.

"'He has come back,' she said.

"I told her what I had seen, and while I spoke she put on her  bonnet, and I exulted, thinking--and then she took off her bonnet,  and I knew she would not go away with me.

"'Margaret,' I cried, 'I am that bairn's father.'

"'Adam's my man,' she said, and at that I gave her a look for  which God might have struck me dead. But instead of blaming me she  put her arms round my neck.

"After that we said very little. We sat at opposite sides of the  fire, waiting for him, and you played on the floor. The harvesters  trooped by, and there was a fiddle; and when it stopped, long  stillness, and then a step. It was not Adam. You fell asleep, and  we could hear nothing but the sea. There was a harvest moon.

"Once a dog ran past the door, and we both rose. Margaret pressed  her hands on her breast. Sometimes she looked furtively at me, and  I knew her thoughts. To me it was only misery that had come, but  to her it was shame, so that when you woke and climbed into her  lap she shivered at your touch. I could not look at her after  that, for there was a horror of me growing in her face.

"Ten o'clock struck, and then again there was no sound but the sea  pouring itself out on the beach. It was long after this, when to  me there was still no other sound, that Margaret screamed, and you  hid behind her. Then I heard it.

"'Gavin,' Margaret said to me, 'be a good man all your life.'

"It was louder now, and then it stopped. Above the wash of the sea  we heard another sound--a sharp tap, tap. You said, 'I know what  sound that is; it's a man knocking the ashes out of his pipe  against his boot.'

"Then the dog pushed the door off the latch, and Adam lurched in.  He was not drunk, but he brought the smell of drink into the room  with him. He was grinning like one bringing rare news, and before  she could shrink back or I could strike him he had Margaret in his  arms.

"'Lord, lass,' he said, with many jovial oaths, 'to think I'm back  again! There, she's swounded. What folks be women, to be sure.'

"'We thought you were dead, Adam," she said, coming to.

'"Bless your blue eyes," he answered gleefully; 'often I says to  myself, "Meggy will be thinking I'm with the fishes," and then I  chuckles.'

"'Where have you been all this time?' I demanded sternly.

"'Gavin,' he said effusively, 'your hand. And don't look so  feared, man; I bear no malice for what you've done. I heard all  about it at the Cross Anchors.'

"'Where have you been these five years and a half?' I repeated.

"'Where have I no been, lad?' he replied.

"'At Harvie,' I said.

"'Right you are,' said he good-naturedly. 'Meggie, I had no  intention of leaving you that day, though I was yawning myself to  death in Harvie; but I sees a whaler, and I thinks, "That's a tidy  boat, and I'm a tidy man, and if they'll take me and the dog, off  we go."'

"'You never wrote to me,' Margaret said."

'"I meant to send you some scrapes,' he answered, 'but it wasna  till I changed ships that I had the chance, and then I minds,  "Meggy kens I'm no hand with the pen." But I swear I often thought  of you, lass; and look you here, that's better than letters, and  so is that, and every penny of it is yours.'"

"He flung two bags of gold upon the table, and their chink brought  you out from behind your mother.

"'Hallo!' Adam cried.

"'He is mine,' I said. 'Gavin, come here.' But Margaret held you  back.

"'Here's a go,' Adam muttered, and scratched his head. Then he  slapped his thigh. 'Gavin,' he said, in his friendliest way,  'we'll toss for him.'

"He pulled the knife that is now in my desk from his pocket, spat  on it, and flung it up. 'Dry, the kid's ours, Meggy,' he  explained; 'wet, he goes to Gavin,' I clinched my fist to---But  what was the use? He caught the knife, and showed it to me.

"'Dry,' he said triumphantly; 'so he is ours, Meggy. Kiddy, catch  the knife. It is yours; and, mind, you have changed dads. And now  that we have settled that, Gavin, there's my hand again.'

"I went away and left them, and I never saw Margaret again until  the day you brought her to Thrums. But I saw you once, a few days  after Adam came back. I was in the school-house, packing my books,  and you were playing on the waste ground. I asked you how your  mother was, and you said, 'She's fleid to come to the door till  you gang awa, and my father's buying a boat.'

"'I'm your father,' I said; but you answered confidently:

"'You're no a living man. You're just a man I dreamed about; and I  promised my mother no to dream about you again.'

"'I am your father,' I repeated.

"'My father's awa buying a fishing-boat,' you insisted; 'and when  I speir at my mother whaur my first father is, she says I'm  havering.'

"'Gavin Ogilvy is your name,' I said. 'No,' you answered, 'I have  a new name. My mother telled me my name is aye to be Gavin Dishart  now. She telled me, too, to fling awa this knife my father gave  me, and I've flung it awa a lot o' times, but I aye pick it up  again.'

"'Give it to me,' I said, with the wicked thoughts of a fool in my  head.

"That is how your knife came into my possession. I left Harvie  that night in the carrier's cart, but I had not the heart to  return to college. Accident brought me here, and I thought it a  fitting place in which to bury myself from Margaret."

CHAPTER XXXVII.   - SECOND JOURNEY OF THE DOMINIE TO THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS.

Here was a nauseous draught for me. Having finished my tale, I  turned to Gavin for sympathy; and, behold, he had been listening  for the cannon instead of to my final words. So, like an old woman  at her hearth, we warm our hands at our sorrows and drop in  faggots, and each thinks his own fire a sun, in presence of which  all other fires should go out. I was soured to see Gavin prove  this, and then I could have laughed without mirth, for had not my  bitterness proved it too?

"And now," I said, rising, "whether Margaret is to hold up her  head henceforth lies no longer with me, but with you."

It was not to that he replied.

"You have suffered long, Mr. Ogilvy," he said. "Father," he added,  wringing my hand. I called him son; but it was only an exchange of  musty words that we had found too late. A father is a poor estate  to come into at two and twenty.

"I should have been told of this," he said.

"Your mother did right, sir," I answered slowly, but he shook his  head.

"I think you have misjudged her," he said. "Doubtless while my fa-  -, while Adam Dishart lived, she could only think of you with  pain; but after his death--"

"After his death," I said quietly, "I was still so horrible to her  that she left Harvie without letting a soul know whither she was  bound. She dreaded my following her."

"Stranger to me," he said, after a pause, "than even your story is  her being able to keep it from me. I believed no thought ever  crossed her mind that she did not let me share."

"And none, I am sure, ever did," I answered, "save that, and such  thoughts as a woman has with God only. It was my lot to bring  disgrace on her. She thought it nothing less, and she has hidden  it all these years for your sake, until now it is not burdensome.  I suppose she feels that God has taken the weight off her. Now you  are to put a heavier burden in its place."

He faced me boldly, and I admire him for it now.

"I cannot admit," he said, "that I did wrong in forgetting my  mother for that fateful quarter of an hour. Babbie and I loved  each other, and I was given the opportunity of making her mine or  losing her forever. Have you forgotten that all this tragedy you  have told me of only grew out of your own indecision? I took the  chance that you let slip by."

"I had not forgotten," I replied. "What else made me tell you last  night that Babbie was in Nanny's house?"

"But now you are afraid--now when the deed is done, when for me  there can be no turning back. Whatever be the issue, I should be a  cur to return to Thrums without my wife. Every minute I feel my  strength returning, and before you reach Thrums I will have set  out to the Spittal."

There was nothing to say after that. He came with me in the rain  as far as the dike, warning me against telling his people what was  not true.

"My first part," I answered, "will be to send word to your mother  that you are in safety. After that I must see Whamond. Much  depends on him."

"You will not go to my mother?"

"Not so long as she has a roof over her head," I said, "but that  may not be for long."

So, I think, we parted--each soon to forget the other in a woman.

But I had not gone far when I heard something that stopped me as  sharply as if it had been McKenzie's hand once more on my  shoulder. For a second the noise appalled me, and then, before the  echo began, I knew it must be the Spittal cannon. My only thought  was one of thankfulness. Now Gavin must see the wisdom of my  reasoning. I would wait for him until he was able to come with me  to Thrums. I turned back, and in my haste I ran through water I  had gone round before.

I was too late. He was gone, and into the rain I shouted his name  in vain. That he had started for the Spittal there could be no  doubt; that he would ever reach it was less certain. The earl's  collie was still crouching by the fire, and, thinking it might be  a guide to him, I drove the brute to the door, and chased it in  the direction he probably had taken. Not until it had run from me  did I resume my own journey. I do not need to be told that you who  read would follow Gavin now rather than me; but you must bear with  the dominie for a little while yet, as I see no other way of  making things clear.

In some ways I was not ill-equipped for my attempt. I do not know  any one of our hillsides as it is known to the shepherd, to whom  every rabbit-hole and glimmer of mica is a landmark; but he, like  his flock, has only to cross a dike to find himself in a strange  land, while I have been everywhere in the glen.

In the foreground the rain slanted, transparent till it reached  the ground, where a mist seemed to blow it along as wind ruffles  grass. In the distance all was a driving mist. I have been out for  perhaps an hour in rains as wetting, and I have watched floods  from my window, but never since have I known the fifth part of a  season's rainfall in eighteen hours; and if there should be the  like here again, we shall be found better prepared for it. Men  have been lost in the glen in mists so thick that they could  plunge their fingers out of sight in it as into a meal girnel; but  this mist never came within twenty yards of me. I was surrounded  by it, however, as if I was in a round tent; and out of this tent  I could not walk, for it advanced with me. On the other side of  this screen were horrible noises, at whose cause I could only  guess, save now and again when a tongue of water was shot at my  feet, or great stones came crashing through the canvas of mist.  Then I ran wherever safety prompted, and thus tangled my bearings  until I was like that one in the child's game who is blindfolded  and turned round three times that he may not know east from west.

Once I stumbled over a dead sheep and a living lamb; and in a  clump of trees which puzzled me--for they were where I thought no  trees should be--a wood-pigeon flew to me, but struck my breast  with such force that I picked it up dead. I saw no other living  thing, though half a dozen times I must have passed within cry of  farmhouses. At one time I was in a cornfield, where I had to lift  my hands to keep them out of water, and a dread filled me that I  had wandered in a circle, and was still on Waster Lunny's land. I  plucked some corn and held it to my eyes to see if it was green;  but it was yellow, and so I knew that at last I was out of the  glen.

People up here will complain if I do not tell how I found the  farmer of Green Brae's fifty pounds. It is one of the best-  remembered incidents of the flood, and happened shortly after I  got out of the cornfield. A house rose suddenly before me, and I  was hastening to it when as suddenly three of its walls fell.  Before my mind could give a meaning to what my eyes told it, the  water that had brought down the house had lifted me off my feet  and flung me among waves. That would have been the last of the  dominie had I not struck against a chest, then half-way on its  voyage to the sea. I think the lid gave way tinder me; but that is  surmise, for from the time the house fell till I was on the river  in a kist that was like to be my coffin, is almost a blank. After  what may have been but a short journey, though I had time in it to  say my prayers twice, we stopped, jammed among fallen trees; and  seeing a bank within reach, I tried to creep up it. In this there  would have been little difficulty had not the contents of the kist  caught in my feet and held on to them, like living things afraid  of being left behind. I let down my hands to disentangle my feet,  but failed; and then, grown desperate, I succeeded in reaching  firm ground, dragging I knew not what after me. It proved to be a  pillow-slip. Green Brae still shudders when I tell him that my  first impulse was to leave the pillow-slip unopened. However, I  ripped it up, for to undo the wet strings that had ravelled round  my feet would have wearied even a man with a needle to pick open  the knots; and among broken gimlets, the head of a grape, and  other things no beggar would have stolen, I found a tin canister  containing fifty pounds. Waster Lunny says that this should have  made a religious man of Green Brae, and it did to this extent,  that he called the fall of the cotter's house providential.  Otherwise the cotter, at whose expense it may be said the money  was found, remains the more religious man of the two.

At last I came to the Kelpie's brig, and I could have wept in joy  (and might have been better employed), when, like everything I saw  on that journey, it broke suddenly through the mist, and seemed to  run at me like a living monster. Next moment I ran back, for as I  stepped upon the bridge I saw that I had been about to walk into  the air. What was left of the Kelpie's brig ended in mid-stream.  Instead of thanking God for the light without which I should have  gone abruptly to my death, I sat down miserable and hopeless.

Presently I was up and trudging to the Loups of Malcolm. At the  Loups the river runs narrow and deep between cliffs, and the spot  is so called because one Malcolm jumped across it when pursued by  wolves. Next day he returned boastfully to look at his jump, and  gazing at it turned dizzy and fell into the river. Since that time  chains have been hung across the Loups to reduce the distance  between the farms of Carwhimple and Keep-What-You-Can from a mile  to a hundred yards. You must cross the chains on your breast. They  were suspended there by Rob Angus, who was also the first to  breast them.

But I never was a Rob Angus. When my pupils practise what they  call the high jump, two small boys hold a string aloft, and the  bigger ones run at it gallantly until they reach it, when they  stop meekly and creep beneath. They will repeat this twenty times,  and yet never, when they start for the string, seem to know where  their courage will fail. Nay, they will even order the small boys  to hold the string higher. I have smiled at this, but it was the  same courage while the difficulty is far off that took me to the  Loups. At sight of them I turned away.

I prayed to God for a little of the mettle of other men, and He  heard me, for with my eyes shut I seemed to see Margaret beckoning  from across the abyss as if she had need of me. Then I rose calmly  and tested the chains, and crossed them on my breast. Many have  done it with the same danger, at which they laugh, but without  that vision I should have held back.

I was now across the river, and so had left the chance of drowning  behind, but I was farther from Thrums than when I left the  school-house, and this countryside was almost unknown to me. The  mist had begun to clear, so that I no longer wandered into fields;  but though I kept to the roads, I could not tell that they led  toward Thrums, and in my exhaustion I had often to stand still.  Then to make a new start in the mud was like pulling stakes out of  the ground. So long as the rain faced me I thought I could not be  straying far; but after an hour I lost this guide, for a wind rose  that blew it in all directions.

In another hour, when I should have been drawing near Thrums, I  found myself in a wood, and here I think my distress was greatest;  nor is this to be marvelled at, for instead of being near Thrums,  I was listening to the monotonous roar of the sea. I was too spent  to reason, but I knew that I must have travelled direct east, and  must be close to the German Ocean. I remember putting my back  against a tree and shutting my eyes, and listening to the lash of  the waves against the beach, and hearing the faint toll of a bell,  and wondering listlessly on what lighthouse it was ringing.  Doubtless I would have lain down to sleep forever had I not heard  another sound near at hand. It was the knock of a hammer on wood,  and might have been a fisherman mending his boat. The instinct of  self-preservation carried me to it, and presently I was at a  little house. A man was standing in the rain, hammering new hinges  to the door; and though I did not recognize him, I saw with  bewilderment that the woman at his side was Nanny.

"It's the dominie," she cried, and her brother added:

"Losh, sir, you hinna the look o' a living man."

"Nanny," I said, in perplexity, "what are you doing here?"

"Whaur else should I be?" she asked.

I pressed my hands over my eyes, crying, "Where am I?"

Nanny shrank from me, but Sanders said, "Has the rain driven you  gyte, man? You're in Thrums."

"But the sea," I said, distrusting him. "I hear it, Listen!"

"That's the wind in Windyghoul," Sanders answered, looking at me  queerly. "Come awa into the house."

CHAPTER XXXVIII. - THRUMS DURING THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS-DEFENCE OF THE MANSE.

Hardly had I crossed the threshold of the mudhouse when such a  sickness came over me that I could not have looked up, though  Nanny's voice had suddenly changed to Margaret's. Vaguely I knew  that Nanny had put the kettle on the fire--a woman's first thought  when there is illness in the house--and as I sat with my hands  over my face I heard the water dripping from my clothes to the  floor.

"Why is that bell ringing?" I asked at last, ignoring all  questions and speaking through my fingers. An artist, I suppose,  could paint all expression out of a human face. The sickness was  having that effect on my voice.

"It's the Auld Licht bell." Sanders said; "and it's almost as  fearsome to listen to as last nicht's rain. I wish I kent what  they're ringing it for."

"Wish no sic things," said Nanny nervously.

"There's things it's best to put off kenning as lang as we can."

"It's that ill-cleakit witch, Erne McBean, that makes Nanny speak  so doleful," Sanders told me. "There was to be a prayer-meeting  last nicht, but Mr. Dishart never came to 't, though they rang  till they wraxed their arms; and now Effie says it'll ring on by  itsel' till he's brocht hame a corp. The hellicat says the rain's  a dispensation to drown him in for neglect o' duty. Sal, I would  think little o' the Lord if He needed to create a new sea to drown  one man in. Nanny, yon cuttie, that's no swearing; I defy you to  find a single lonely oath in what I've said."

"Never mind Effie McBean," I interposed. "What are the  congregation saying about the minister's absence?"

"We ken little except what Effie telled us," Nanny answered. "I  was at Tilliedrum yestreen, meeting Sanders as he got out o' the  gaol, and that awfu onding began when we was on the Bellies Braes.  We focht our way through it, but not a soul did we meet; and wha  would gang out the day that can bide at hame? Ay, but Effie says  it's kent in Thrums that Mr. Dishart has run off wi'--wi' an  Egyptian."

"You're waur than her, Nanny," Sanders said roughly, "for you hae  twa reasons for kenning better. In the first place, has Mr.  Dishart no keeped you in siller a' the time I was awa? and for  another, have I no been at the manse?"

My head rose now.

"He gaed to the manse," Nanny explained, "to thank Mr. Dishart for  being so good to me. Ay, but Jean wouldna let him in. I'm thinking  that looks gey gray."

"Whatever was her reason," Sanders admitted, "Jean wouldna open  the door; but I keeked in at the parlor window, and saw Mrs.  Dishart in't looking very cosy-like and lauching; and do you think  I would hae seen that if I had come ower the minister?"

"Not if Margaret knew of it," I said to myself, and wondered at  Whamond's forbearance.

"She had a skein o' worsted stretched out on her hands," Sanders  continued, "and a young leddy was winding it. I didna see her  richt, but she wasna a Thrums leddy."

"Effie McBean says she's his intended, come to call him to  account," Nanny said; but I hardly listened, for I saw that I must  hurry to Tammas Whamond's. Nanny followed me to the gate with her  gown pulled over her head, and said excitedly:

"Oh, dominie, I warrant it's true. It'll be Babbie. Sanders doesna  suspect, because I've telled him nothing about her. Oh, what's to  be done? They were baith so good to me."

I could only tell her to keep what she knew to herself.

"Has Rob Dow come back?" I called out after I had started.

"Whaur frae?" she replied; and then I remembered that all these  things had happened while Nanny was at Tilliedrum. In this life  some of the seven ages are spread over two decades, and others  pass as quickly as a stage play. Though a fifth of a season's rain  had fallen in a night and a day, it had scarcely kept pace with  Gavin.

I hurried to the town by the Roods. That brae was as deserted as  the country roads, except where children had escaped from their  mothers to wade in it. Here and there dams were keeping the water  away from one door to send it with greater volume to another, and  at points the ground had fallen in. But this I noticed without  interest. I did not even realize that I was holding my head  painfully to the side where it had been blown by the wind and  glued by the rain. I have never held my head straight since that  journey.

Only a few looms were going, their pedals in water. I was  addressed from several doors and windows, once by Charles Yuill.

"Dinna pretend," he said, "that you've walked in frae the school-  house alane. The rain chased me into this house yestreen, and here  it has keeped me, though I bide no further awa than Tillyloss."

"Charles," I said in a low voice, "why is the Auld Licht bell  ringing?"

"Hae you no heard about Mr. Dishart?" he asked. "Ob, man! that's  Lang Tammas in the kirk by himsel', tearing at the bell to bring  the folk thegither to depose the minister."

Instead of going to Whamond's house in the school wynd I hastened  down the Banker's close to the kirk, and had almost to turn back,  so choked was the close with floating refuse. I could see the bell  swaying, but the kirk was locked, and I battered on the door to no  purpose. Then, remembering that Henry Munn lived in Coutt's  trance, I set off for his house. He saw me crossing the square,  but would not open his door until I was close to it.

"When I open," he cried, "squeeze through quick"; but though I did  his bidding, a rush of water darted in before me. Hendry reclosed  the door by flinging himself against it.

"When I saw you crossing the square," he said, "it was surprise  enough to cure the hiccup."

"Hendry," I replied instantly, "why is the Auld Licht bell  ringing?"

He put his finger to his lip. "I see," he said imperturbably,  "you've met our folk in the glen and heard frae them about the  minister."

"What folk?"

"Mair than half the congregation," he replied, "I started for Glen  Quharity twa hours syne to help the farmers. You didna see them?"

"No; they must have been on the other side of the river." Again  that question forced my lips, "Why is the bell ringing?"

"Canny, dominie," he said, "till we're up the stair. Mysy Moncur's  lug's at her keyhole listening to you."

"You lie, Hendry Munn," cried an invisible woman. The voice became  more plaintive: "I ken a heap, Hendry, so you may as well tell me  a'."

"Lick away at the bone you hae," the shoemaker replied  heartlessly, and conducted me to his room up one of the few inside  stairs then in Thrums. Hendry's oddest furniture was five boxes,  fixed to the wait at such a height that children could climb into  them from a high stool. In these his bairns slept, and so space  was economized. I could never laugh at the arrangement, as I knew  that Betty had planned it on her deathbed for her man's sake. Five  little heads bobbed up in their beds as I entered, but more vexing  to me was Wearyworld on a stool.

"In by, dominie," he said sociably. "Sal, you needna fear burning  wi' a' that water on you, You're in mair danger o' coming a-boil."

"I want to speak to you alone, Hendry," I said bluntly.

"You winna put me out, Hendry?" the alarmed policeman entreated.  "Mind, you said in sic weather you would be friendly to a brute  beast. Ay, ay, dominie, what's your news? It's welcome, be it good  or bad. You would meet the townsfolk in the glen, and they would  tell you about Mr. Dishart. What, you hinna heard? Oh, sirs, he's  a lost man. There would hae been a meeting the day to depose him  if so many hadna gaen to the glen. But the morn'll do as weel. The  very women is cursing him, and the laddies has begun to gather  stanes. He's married on an Egyp--"

"Hendry!" I cried, like one giving an order.

"Wearyworld, step!" said Hendry sternly, and then added soft-  heartedly: "Here's a bit news that'll open Mysy Moncur's door to  you. You can tell her frae me that the bell's ringing just because  I forgot to tie it up last nicht, and the wind's shaking it, and I  winna gang out in the rain to stop it."

"Ay," the policeman said, looking at me sulkily, "she may open her  door for that, but it'll no let me in. Tell me mair. Tell me wha  the leddy at the manse is."

"Out you go," answered Hendry. "Once she opens the door, you can  shove your foot in, and syne she's in your power." He pushed  Wearyworld out, and came back to me, saying, "It was best to tell  him the truth, to keep him frae making up lies."

"But is it the truth? I was told Lang Tammas--"

"Ay, I ken that story; but Tammas has other work on hand."

"Then tie up the bell at once, Hendry," I urged.

"I canna," he answered gravely. "Tammas took the keys o' the kirk  fram me yestreen, and winna gie them up. He says the bell's being  rung by the hand o' God."

"Has he been at the manse? Does Mrs. Dishart know--?"

"He's been at the manse twa or three times, but Jean barred him  out. She'll let nobody in till the minister comes back, and so the  mistress kens nothing. But what's the use o' keeping it frae her  ony langer?"

"Every use," I said.

"None," answered Hendry sadly. "Dominie, the minister was married  to the Egyptian on the hill last nicht, and Tammas was witness.  Not only were they married, but they've run aff thegither."

"You are wrong, Hendry," I assured him, telling as much as I  dared. "I left Mr. Dishart in my house."

"What! But if that is so, how did he no come back wi' you?"

"Because he was nearly drowned in the flood."

"She'll be wi' him?"

"He was alone."

Hendry's face lit up dimly with joy, and then he shook his head.  "Tammas was witness," he said. "Can you deny the marriage?"

"All I ask of you," I answered guardedly, "is to suspend judgment  until the minister returns."

"There can be nothing done, at ony rate," he said, "till the folk  themsel's come back frae the glen; and I needna tell you how glad  we would a' be to be as fond o' him as ever. But Tammas was  witness."

"Have pity on his mother, man."

"We've done the best for her we could," he replied. "We prigged  wi' Tammas no to gang to the manse till we was sure the minister  was living. 'For if he has been drowned, "we said, 'his mother  need never ken what we were thinking o' doing.' Ay, and we're  sorry for the young leddy, too."

"What young lady is this you all talk of?" I asked.

"She's his intended. Ay, you needna start. She has come a' the  road frae Glasgow to challenge him about the gypsy. The pitiful  thing is that Mrs. Dishart lauched awa her fears, and now they're  baith waiting for his return, as happy as ignorance can make  them."

"There is no such lady," I said.

"But there is," he answered doggedly, "for she came in a machine  late last nicht, and I was ane o' a dozen that baith heard and saw  it through my window. It stopped at the manse near half an hour.  What's mair, the lady hersel' was at Sam'l Farquharson's in the  Tenements the day for twa hours."

I listened in bewilderment and fear.

"Sam'l's bairn's down wi' scarlet fever and like to die, and him  being a widow-man he has gone useless. You mauna blame the wives  in the Tenements for hauding back. They're fleid to smit their ain  litlins; and as it happens, Sam'l's friends is a' aff to the glen.  Weel, he ran greeting to the manse for Mr. Dishart, and the lady  heard him crying to Jean through the door, and what does she do  but gang straucht to the Tenements wi' Sam'l. Her goodness has  naturally put the folk on her side against the minister."

"This does not prove her his intended," I broke in.

"She was heard saying to Sam'l," answered the kirk officer," that  the minister being awa, it was her duty to take his place. Yes,  and though she little kent it, he was already married."

"Hendry," I said, rising, "I must see this lady at once. Is she  still at Farquharson's house?"

"She may be back again by this time. Tammas set off for Sam'l's as  soon as he heard she was there, but he just missed her, I left him  there an hour syne. He was waiting for her, determined to tell her  all."

I set off for the Tenements at once, declining Hendry's company.  The wind had fallen, so that the bell no longer rang, but the rain  was falling doggedly. The streets were still deserted. I pushed  open the precentor's door in the school wynd, but there was no one  in the house. Tibbie Birse saw me, and shouted from her door:

"Hae you heard o' Mr. Dishart? He'll never daur show face in  Thrums again."

Without giving her a word I hastened to the Tenements.

"The leddy's no here," Sam'l Farquharson told me, "and Tammas is  back at the manse again, trying to force his way in."

From Sam'l, too, I turned, with no more than a groan; but he cried  after me, "Perdition on the man that has played that leddy false."

Had Margaret been at her window she must have seen me, so  recklessly did I hurry up the minister's road, with nothing in me  but a passion to take Whamond by the throat. He was not in the  garden. The kitchen door was open. Jean was standing at it with  her apron to her eyes.

"Tammas Whamond?" I demanded, and my face completed the question.

"You're ower late," she wailed. "He's wi' her. Oh, dominie,  whaur's the minister?"

"You base woman!" I cried, "why did you unbar the door?"

"It was the mistress," she answered. "She heard him shaking it,  and I had to tell her wha it was. Dominie, it's a' my wite! He  tried to get in last nicht, and roared threats through the door,  and after he had gone awa she speired wha I had been speaking to.  I had to tell her, but I said he had come to let her ken that the  minister was taking shelter frae the rain in a farmhouse. Ay, I  said he was to bide there till the flood gaed down, and that's how  she has been easy a day. I acted for the best, but I'm sair  punished now; for when she heard Tammas at the door twa or three  minutes syne, she ordered me to let him in, so that she could  thank him for bringing--the news last nicht, despite the rain.  They're in the parlor. Oh, dominie, gang in and stop his mouth."

This was hard. I dared not go to the parlor. Margaret might have  died at sight of me. I turned my face from Jean.

"Jean," said some one, opening the inner kitchen door, "why did  you--?"

She stopped, and that was what turned me round. As she spoke I  thought it was the young lady; when I looked I saw it was Babbie,  though no longer in a gypsy's dress. Then I knew that the young  lady and Babbie were one.

CHAPTER XXXIX. -  HOW BABBIE SPENT THE NIGHT OF AUGUST FOURTH.

How had the Egyptian been spirited here from the Spittal? I did  not ask the question. To interest myself in Babbie at that dire  hour of Margaret's life would have been as impossible to me as to  sit down to a book. To others, however, it is only an old woman on  whom the parlor door of the manse has closed, only a garrulous  dominie that is in pain outside it. Your eyes are on the young  wife.

When Babbie was plucked off the hill, she thought as little as  Gavin that her captor was Rob Dow. Close as he was to her, he was  but a shadow until she screamed the second time, when he pressed  her to the ground and tied his neckerchief over her mouth. Then,  in the moment that power of utterance was taken from her, she saw  the face that had startled her at Nanny's window. Half-carried,  she was borne forward rapidly, until some one seemed to rise out  of the broom and strike them both. They had only run against the  doctor's trap; and huddling her into it, Dow jumped up beside her.  He tied her hands together with a cord. For a time the horse  feared the darkness in front more than the lash behind; but when  the rains became terrific, it rushed ahead wildly--probably with  its eyes shut.

In three minutes Babbie went through all the degrees of fear. In  the first she thought Lord Rintoul had kidnapped her; but no  sooner had her captor resolved himself into Dow, drunk with the  events of the day and night, than in the earl's hands would have  lain safety. Next, Dow was forgotten in the dread of a sudden  death which he must share. And lastly, the rain seemed to be  driving all other horrors back, that it might have her for its  own. Her perils increased to the unbearable as quickly as an iron  in the fire passes through the various stages between warmth and  white heat. Then she had to do something; and as she could not cry  out, she flung herself from the dogcart. She fell heavily in  Caddani Wood, but the rain would not let her lie there stunned. It  beat her back to consciousness, and she sat up on her knees and  listened breathlessly, staring in the direction the trap had  taken, as if her eyes could help her ears.

All night, I have said, the rain poured, but those charges only  rode down the deluge at intervals, as now and again one wave  greater than the others stalks over the sea. In the first lull it  appeared to Babbie that the storm had swept by, leaving her to  Dow. Now she heard the rubbing of the branches, and felt the torn  leaves falling on her gown. She rose to feel her way out of the  wood with her bound hands, then sank in terror, for some one had  called her name. Next moment she was up again, for the voice was  Gavin's, who was hurrying after her, as he thought, down  Windyghoul. He was no farther away than a whisper might have  carried on a still night, but she dared not pursue him, for  already Dow was coming back. She could not see him, but she heard  the horse whinny and the rocking of the dogcart. Dow was now at  the brute's head, and probably it tried to bite him, for he struck  it, crying:

"Would you? Stand still till I find her. I heard her move this  minute."

Babbie crouched upon a big stone and sat motionless while he  groped for her. Her breathing might have been tied now, as well as  her mouth. She heard him feeling for her, first with his feet and  then with his hands, and swearing when his head struck against a  tree.

"I ken you're within hearing," he muttered, "and I'll hae you yet.  I have a gully-knife in my hand. Listen!"

He severed a whin-stalk with the knife, and Babbie seemed to see  the gleam of the blade.

"What do I mean by wanting to kill you?" he said, as if she had  asked the question. "Do you no ken wha said to me, 'Kill this  woman?' It was the Lord. 'I winna kill her,' I said, 'but I'll  cart her out o' the country.' 'Kill her,' says He; 'why  encumbereth she the ground?'"

He resumed his search, but with new tactics. "I see you now," he  would cry, and rush forward perhaps within a yard of her. Then she  must have screamed had she had the power. When he tied that  neckerchief round her mouth he prolonged her life.

Then came the second hurricane of rain, so appalling that had  Babbie's hands been free she would have pressed them to her ears.  For a full minute she forgot Dow's presence. A living thing  touched her face. The horse had found her. She recoiled from it,  but its frightened head pressed heavily on her shoulder. She rose  and tried to steal away, but the brute followed, and as the rain  suddenly exhausted itself she heard the dragging of the dogcart.  She had to halt.

Again she heard Dow's voice. Perhaps he had been speaking  throughout the roar of the rain. If so, it must have made him deaf  to his own words. He groped for the horse's head, and presently  his hand touched Babbie's dress, then jumped from it, so suddenly  had he found her. No sound escaped him, and she was beginning to  think it possible that he had mistaken her for a bush when his  hand went over her face. He was making sure of his discovery.

"The Lord has delivered you into my hands," he said in a low  voice, with some awe in it. Then he pulled her to the ground, and,  sitting down beside her, rocked himself backward and forward, his  hands round his knees. She would have bartered the world for power  to speak to him.

"He wouldna hear o' my just carting you to some other  countryside," he said confidentially. "'The devil would just blaw  her back again, says He, 'therefore kill her.' 'And if I kill  her,' I says, 'they'll hang me.' 'You can hang yoursel',' says He.  'What wi'?' I speirs. 'Wi' the reins o' the dogcart,' says He.  'They would break,' says I. 'Weel, weel,' says He, 'though they do  hang you, nobody'll miss you.' 'That's true,' says I, 'and You are  a just God.'"

He stood up and confronted her.

"Prisoner at the bar," he said, "hae ye onything to say why  sentence of death shouldna be pronounced against you? She doesna  answer. She kens death is her deserts."

By this time he had forgotten probably why his victim was dumb.

"Prisoner at the bar, hand back to me the soul o' Gavin Dishart.  You winna? Did the devil, your master, summon you to him and say,  'Either that noble man or me maun leave Thrums?' He did. And did  you, or did you no, drag that minister, when under your spell, to  the hill, and there marry him ower the tongs? You did. Witnesses,  Rob Dow and Tammas Whamond."

She was moving from him on her knees, meaning when out of arm's  reach to make a dash for life.

"Sit down," he grumbled, "or how can you expect a fair trial?  Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty of witchcraft."

For the first time his voice faltered.

"That's the difficulty, for witches canna die, except by burning  or drowning. There's no blood in you for my knife, and your neck  wouldna twist. Your master has brocht the rain to put out a' the  fires, and we'll hae to wait till it runs into a pool deep enough  to drown you.

"I wonder at You, God. Do You believe her master'll mak' the pool  for her? He'll rather stop his rain. Mr. Dishart said You was mair  powerful than the devil, but--it doesna look like it. If You had  the power, how did You no stop this woman working her will on the  minister? You kent what she was doing, for You ken a' things. Mr.  Dishart says You ken a' things. If You do, the mair shame to You.  Would a shepherd, that could help it. let dogs worry his sheep?  Kill her! It's fine to cry 'Kill her,' but whaur's the bonfire,  whaur's the pool? You that made the heaven and the earth and all  that in them is, can You no set fire to some wet whins, or change  this stane into a mill-dam?"

He struck the stone with his fist, and then gave a cry of  exultation. He raised the great slab in his arms and flung it from  him. In that moment Babbie might have run away, but she fainted.  Almost simultaneously with Dow she knew this was the stone which  covered the Caddam well. When she came to, Dow was speaking, and  his voice had become solemn.

"You said your master was mair powerful than mine, and I said it  too, and all the time you was sitting here wi' the very pool  aneath you that I have been praying for. Listen!"

He dropped a stone into the well, and she heard it strike the  water.

"What are you shaking at?" he said in reproof. "Was it no yoursel'  that chose the spot? Lassie, say your prayers. Are you saying  them?"

He put his hand over her face, to feel if her lips were moving,  and tore off the neckerchief.

And then again the rain came between them. In that rain one could  not think. Babbie did not know that she had bitten through the  string that tied her hands. She planned no escape. But she flung  herself at the place where Dow had been standing. He was no longer  there, and she fell heavily, and was on her feet again in an  instant and running recklessly. Trees intercepted her, and she  thought they were Dow, and wrestled with them. By and by she fell  into Windyghoul, and there she crouched until all her senses were  restored to her, when she remembered that she had been married  lately.

How long Dow was in discovering that she had escaped, and whether  he searched for her, no one knows. After a time he jumped into the  dogcart again, and drove aimlessly through the rain. That wild  journey probably lasted two hours, and came to an abrupt end only  when a tree fell upon the trap. The horse galloped off, but one of  Dow's legs was beneath the tree, and there he had to lie helpless,  for though the leg was little injured, he could not extricate  himself. A night and day passed, and he believed that he must die;  but even in this plight he did not forget the man he loved. He  found a piece of slate, and in the darkness cut these words on it  with his knife:

"Me being about to die, I solemnly swear I didna see the minister  marrying an Egyptian on the hill this nicht. May I burn in Hell if  this is no true."

(Signed) "ROB DOW."

This document he put in his pocket, and so preserved proof of what  he was perjuring himself to deny.

CHAPTER XL.   - BABBIE AND MARGARET--DEFENCE OF THE MANSE CONTINUED.

The Egyptian was mournful in Windyghoul, up which she had once  danced and sung; but you must not think that she still feared Dow.  I felt McKenzie's clutch on any arm for hours after he left me,  but she was far braver than I; indeed, dangers at which I should  have shut my eyes only made hers gleam, and I suppose it was sheer  love of them that first made her play the coquette with Gavin. If  she cried now, it was not for herself; it was because she thought  she had destroyed him. Could I have gone to her then and said that  Gavin wanted to blot out the gypsy wedding, that throbbing little  breast would have frozen at once, and the drooping head would have  been proud again, and she would have gone away forever without  another tear.

What do I say? I am doing a wrong to the love these two bore each  other. Babbie would not have taken so base a message from my lips.  He would have had to say the words to her himself before she  believed them his. What would he want her to do now? was the only  question she asked herself. To follow him was useless, for in that  rain and darkness two people might have searched for each other  all night in a single field. That he would go to the Spittal,  thinking her in Rintoul's dogcart, she did not doubt; and his  distress was painful to her to think of. But not knowing that the  burns were in flood, she underestimated his danger.

Remembering that the mudhouse was near, she groped her way to it,  meaning to pass the night there; but at the gate she turned away  hastily, hearing from the door the voice of a man she did not know  to be Nanny's brother. She wandered recklessly a short distance,  until the rain began to threaten again, and then, falling on her  knees in the broom, she prayed to God for guidance. When she rose  she set off for the manse.

The rain that followed the flash of lightning had brought Margaret  to the kitchen.

"Jean, did you ever hear such a rain? It is trying to break into  the manse."

"I canna hear you, ma'am; is it the rain you're feared at?"

"What else could it be?"

Jean did not answer.

"I hope the minister won't leave the church, Jean, till this is  over?"

"Nobody would daur, ma'am. The rain'll turn the key on them all."

Jean forced out these words with difficulty, for she knew that the  church had been empty and the door locked for over an hour.

"This rain has come as if in answer to the minister's prayer,  Jean."

"It wasna rain like this they wanted."

"Jean, you would not attempt to guide the Lord's hand. The  minister will have to reprove the people for thinking too much of  him again, for they will say that he induced God to send the rain.  To-night's meeting will be remembered long in Thrums."

Jean shuddered, and said, "It's mair like an ordinary rain now,  ma'am."

"But it has put out your fire, and I wanted another heater.  Perhaps the one I have is hot enough, though.'"

Margaret returned to the parlor, and from the kitchen Jean could  hear the heater tilted backward and forward in the box-iron--a  pleasant, homely sound when there is happiness in the house. Soon  she heard a step outside, however, and it was followed by a rough  shaking of the barred door.

"Is it you, Mr. Dishart?" Jean asked nervously.

"It's me, Tammas Whamond," the precentor answered. "Unbar the  door."

"What do you want? Speak low."

"I winna speak low. Let me in. I hae news for the minister's  mother."

"What news?" demanded Jean.

"Jean Proctor, as chief elder of the kirk I order you to let me do  my duty."

"Whaur's the minister?"

"He's a minister no longer. He's married a gypsy woman and run awa  wi' her."

"You lie, Tammas Whamond. I believe--"

"Your belief's of no consequence. Open the door, and let me in to  tell your mistress what I hae seen."

"She'll hear it first frae his ain lips if she hears it ava. I  winna open the door."

"Then I'll burst it open,"

Whamond flung himself at the door, and Jean, her fingers rigid  with fear, stood waiting for its fall. But the rain came to her  rescue by lashing the precentor until even he was forced to run  from it.

"I'll be back again," he cried. "Woe to you, Jean Proctor, that  hae denied your God this nicht."

"Who was that speaking to you, Jean?" asked Margaret, re-entering  the kitchen. Until the rain abated Jean did not attempt to answer.

"I thought it was the precentor's voice," Margaret said.

Jean was a poor hand at lying, and she stuttered in her answer.

"There is nothing wrong, is there?" cried Margaret, in sudden  fright. "My son--"

"Nothing, nothing."

The words jumped from Jean to save Margaret from falling. Now she  could not take them back. "I winna believe it o' him," said Jean  to herself. "Let them say what they will, I'll be true to him; and  when he comes back he'll find her as he left her."

"It was Lang Tammas," she answered her mistress; "but he just came  to say that--"

"Quick, Jean! what?"

"Mr. Dishart has been called to a sick-bed in the country, ma'am--  to the farm o' Look-About-You; and as it's sic a rain, he's to  bide there a' nicht."

"And Whamond came through that rain to tell me this? How good of  him. Was there any other message?"

"Just that the minister hoped you would go straight to your bed,  ma'am," said Jean, thinking to herself, "There can be no great sin  in giving her one mair happy nicht; it may be her last."

The two women talked for a short time, and then read verse about  in the parlor from the third chapter of Mark.

"This is the first night we have been left alone in the manse,"  Margaret said, as she was retiring to her bedroom," and we must  not grudge the minister to those who have sore need of him. I  notice that you have barred the doors."

"Ay, they're barred. Nobody can win in the nicht."

"Nobody will want in, Jean," Margaret said, smiling.

"I dinna ken about that," answered Jean below her breath. "Ay,  ma'am, may you sleep for baith o' us this nicht, for I daurna gang  to my bed."

Jean was both right and wrong, for two persons wanted in within  the next half-hour, and she opened the door to both of them. The  first to come was Babbie.

So long as women sit up of nights listening for a footstep, will  they flatten their faces at the window, though all without be  black. Jean had not been back in the kitchen for two minutes  before she raised the blind. Her eyes were close to the glass,  when she saw another face almost meet hers, as you may touch your  reflection in a mirror. But this face was not her own. It was  white and sad. Jean suppressed a cry, and let the blind fall, as  if shutting the lid on some uncanny thing.

"Won't you let me in?" said a voice that might have been only the  sob of a rain-beaten wind; "I am nearly drowned."

Jean stood like death; but her suppliant would not pass on.

"You are not afraid?" the voice continued. "Raise the blind again,  and you will see that no one need fear me."

At this request Jean's hands sought each other's company behind  her back.

"Wha are you?" she asked, without stirring. "Are you--the woman?"

"Yes."

"Whaur's the minister?"

The rain again became wild, but this time it only tore by the  manse as if to a conflict beyond.

"Are you aye there? I daurna let you in till I'm sure the mistress  is bedded. Gang round to the front, and see if there's ony licht  burning in the high west window."

"There was a light," the voice said presently, "but it was turned  out as I looked."

"Then I'll let you in, and God kens I mean no wrang by it."

Babbie entered shivering, and Jean rebarred the door. Then she  looked long at the woman whom her master loved. Babbie was on her  knees at the hearth, holding out her hands to the dead fire.

"What a pity it's a fause face."

"Do I look so false?"

"Is it true? You're no married to him?"

"Yes, it is true."

"And yet you look as if you was fond o' him. If you cared for him,  how could you do it?"

"That was why I did it."

"And him could hae had wha he liked."

"I gave up Lord Rintoul for him."

"What? Na, na; you're the Egyptian."

"You judge me by my dress."

"And soaking it is. How you're shivering--what neat fingers--what  bonny little feet. I could near believe what you tell me. Aff wi'  these rags, an I'll gie you on my black frock, if--if you promise  me no to gang awa wi't."

So Babbie put on some clothes of Jean's, including the black  frock, and stockings and shoes.

"Mr. Dishart cannot be back, Jean," she said, "before morning, and  I don't want his mother to see me till he comes."

"I wouldna let you near her the nicht though you gaed on your  knees to me. But whaur is he?"

Babbie explained why Gavin had set off for the Spittal; but Jean  shook her head incredulously, saying, "I canna believe you're that  grand leddy, and yet ilka time I look at you I could near believe  it."

In another minute Jean had something else to think of, for there  came a loud rap upon the front door.

"It's Tammas Whamond back again," she moaned; "and if the mistress  hears, she'll tell me to let him in."

"You shall open to me," cried a hoarse voice.

"That's no Tammas' word," Jean said in bewilderment.

"It is Lord Rintoul," Babbie whispered.

"What? Then it's truth you telled me."

The knocking continued; a door upstairs opened, and Margaret spoke  over the banisters.

"Have you gone to bed, Jean? Some one is knocking at the door, and  a minute ago I thought I heard a carriage stop close by. Perhaps  the farmer has driven Mr. Dishart home."

"I'm putting on my things, ma'am," Jean answered; then whispered  to Babbie, "What's to be done?"

"He won't go away," Babbie answered, "You will have to let him  into the parlor, Jean. Can she see the door from up there?"

"No; but though he was in the parlor?"

"I shall go to him there."

"Make haste, Jean," Margaret called. "If it is any persons wanting  shelter, we must give it them on such a night."

"A minute, ma'am," Jean answered. To Babbie she whispered, "What  shall I say to her?"

"I--I don't know," answered Babbie ruefully. "Think of something,  Jean. But open the door now. Stop, let me into the parlor first."

The two women stole into the parlor.

"Tell me what will be the result o' his coming here," entreated  Jean.

"The result," Babbie said firmly, "will be that he shall go away  and leave me here."

Margaret heard Jean open the front door and speak to some person  or persons whom she showed, into the parlor.

CHAPTER XLI.   - RINTOUL AND BABBIE--BREAKDOWN OF THE DEFENCE OF THE MANSE.

"You dare to look me in the face!"

They were Rintoul's words. Yet Babbie had only ventured to look up  because he was so long in speaking. His voice was low but harsh,  like a wheel on which the brake is pressed sharply.

"It seems to be more than the man is capable of," he added sourly.

"Do you think," Babbie exclaimed, taking fare, "that he is afraid  of you?"

"So it seems; but I will drag him into the light, wherever he is  skulking."

Lord Rintoul strode to the door, and the brake was off his tongue  already.

"Go," said Babbie coldly, "and shout and stamp through the house;  you may succeed in frightening the women, who are the only persons  in it."

"Where is he?"

"He has gone to the Spittal to see you."

"He knew I was on the hill."

"He lost me in the darkness, and thought you had run away with me  in your trap."

"Ha! So he is off to the Spittal to ask me to give you back to  him."

"To compel you," corrected Babbie.

"Pooh!" said the earl nervously, "that was but mummery on the  hill."

"It was a marriage."

"With gypsies for witnesses. Their word would count for less than  nothing. Babbie, I am still in time to save you."

"I don't want to be saved. The marriage had witnesses no court  could discredit."

"What witnesses?"

"Mr. McKenzie and yourself."

She heard his teeth meet. When next she looked at him, there were  tears in his eyes as well as in her own. It was perhaps the first  time these two had, ever been in close sympathy. Both were  grieving for Rintoul.

"I am so sorry," Babbie began in a broken voice; then stopped,  because they seemed such feeble words.

"If you are sorry," the earl answered eagerly, "it is not yet too  late. McKenzie and I saw nothing. Come away with me, Babbie, if  only in pity for yourself."

"Ah, but I don't pity myself."

"Because this man has blinded you."

"No, he has made me see."

"This mummery on the hill--"

"Why do you call it so? I believe God approved of that marriage,  as He could never have countenanced yours and mine."

"God! I never heard the word on your lips before."

"I know that."

"It is his teaching, doubtless?"

"Yes."

"And he told you that to do to me as you have done was to be  pleasing in God's sight?"

"No; he knows that it was so evil in God's sight that I shall  suffer for it always."

"But he has done no wrong, so there is no punishment for him?"

"It is true that he has done no wrong, but his punishment will be  worse, probably, than mine."

"That," said the earl, scoffing, "is not just."

"It is just. He has accepted responsibility for my sins by  marrying me."

"And what form is his punishment to take?"

"For marrying me he will be driven from his church and dishonored  in all men's eyes, unless--unless God is more merciful to us than  we can expect."

Her sincerity was so obvious that the earl could no longer meet it  with sarcasm.

"It is you I pity now," he said, looking wonderingly at her. "Do  you not see that this man has deceived you? Where was his boasted  purity in meeting you by stealth, as he must have been doing, and  plotting to take you from me?"

"If you knew him," Babbie answered, "you would not need to be told  that he is incapable of that. He thought me an ordinary gypsy  until an hour ago."

"And you had so little regard for me that you waited until the eve  of what was to be our marriage, and then, laughing at my shame,  ran off to marry him."

"I am not so bad as that," Babbie answered, and told him what had  brought her to Thrums. "I had no thought but of returning to you,  nor he of keeping me from you. We had said good-by at the mudhouse  door--and then we heard your voice."

"And my voice was so horrible to you that it drove you to this?"

"I--I love him so much."

What more could Babbie answer? These words told him that, if love  commands, home, the friendships of a lifetime, kindnesses  incalculable, are at once as naught. Nothing is so cruel as love  if a rival challenges it to combat.

"Why could you not love me, Babbie?" said the earl sadly. "I have  done so much for you."

It was little he had done for her that was not selfish. Men are  deceived curiously in such matters. When, they add a new wing to  their house, they do not call the action virtue; but if they give  to a fellow-creature for their own gratification, they demand of  God a good mark for it. Babbie, however, was in no mood to make  light of the earl's gifts, and at his question she shook her head  sorrowfully.

"Is it because I am too--old?"

This was the only time he ever spoke of his age to her.

"Oh no, it is not that," she replied hastily, "I love Mr. Dishart-  -because he loves me, I think."

"Have I not loved you always?"

"Never," Babbie answered simply. "If you had, perhaps then I  should have loved you."

"Babbie," he exclaimed, "if ever man loved woman, and showed it by  the sacrifices he made for her, I--"

"No," Babbie said, "you don't understand what it is. Ah! I did not  mean to hurt you."

"If I don't know what it is, what is it?" he asked, almost humbly.  "I scarcely know you now."

"That is it," said Babbie.

She gave him back his ring, and then he broke down pitifully.  Doubtless there was good in him, but I saw him only once; and with  nothing to contrast against it, I may not now attempt to breathe  life into the dust of his senile passion. These were the last  words that passed between him and Babbie:

"There was nothing," he said wistfully, "in this wide world that  you could not have had by asking me for it. Was not that love?"

"No," she answered. "What right have I to everything I cry for?"

"You should never have had a care had you married me. That is  love."

"It is not. I want to share my husband's cares, as I expect him to  share mine."

"I would have humored you in everything."

"You always did: as if a woman's mind were for laughing at, like a  baby's passions."

"You had your passions, too, Babbie. Yet did I ever chide you for  them? That was love."

"No, it was contempt. Oh," she cried passionately, "what have not  you men to answer for who talk of love to a woman when her face is  all you know of her; and her passions, her aspirations, are for  kissing to sleep, her very soul a plaything? I tell you, Lord  Rintoul, and it is all the message I send back to the gentlemen at  the Spittal who made love to me behind your back, that this is a  poor folly, and well calculated to rouse the wrath of God."

Now, Jean's ear had been to the parlor keyhole for a time, but  some message she had to take to Margaret, and what she risked  saying was this:

"It's Lord Rintoul and a party that has been catched in the rain,  and he would be obliged to you if you could gie his bride shelter  for the nicht."

Thus the distracted servant thought to keep Margaret's mind at  rest until Gavin came back.

"Lord Rintoul!" exclaimed Margaret. "What a pity Gavin has missed  him. Of course she can stay here. Did you say I bad gone to bed? I  should not know What to say to a lord. But ask her to come up to  me after he has gone--and, Jean, is the parlor looking tidy?"

Lord Rintoul having departed, Jean told Babbie how she had  accounted to Margaret for his visit. "And she telled me to gie you  dry claethes and her compliments, and would you gang up to the  bedroom and see her?"

Very slowly Babbie climbed the stairs. I suppose she is the only  person who was ever afraid of Margaret. Her first knock on the  bedroom door was so soft that Margaret, who was sitting up in bed,  did not hear it. When Babbie entered the room, Margaret's first  thought was that there could be no other so beautiful as this, and  her second was that the stranger seemed even more timid than  herself. After a few minutes' talk she laid aside her primness, a  weapon she had drawn in self-defence lest this fine lady should  not understand the grandeur of a manse, and at a "Call me Babbie,  won't you?" she smiled.

"That is what some other person calls you," said Margaret archly.  "Do you know that he took twenty minutes to say good-night? My  dear," she added hastily, misinterpreting Babbie's silence, "I  should have been sorry had he taken one second less. Every tick of  the clock was a gossip, telling me how he loves you."

In the dim light a face that begged for pity was turned to  Margaret.

"He does love you, Babbie?" she asked, suddenly doubtful.

Babbie turned away her face, then shook her head.

"But you love him?"

Again Babbie shook her head.

"Oh, my dear," cried Margaret, in distress, "if this is so, are  you not afraid to marry him?"

She knew now that Babbie was crying, but she did not know why  Babbie could not look her in the face.

"There may be times," Babbie said, most woeful that she had not  married Rintoul, "when it is best to marry a man though we do not  love him."

"You are wrong, Babbie," Margaret answered gravely; "if I know  anything at all, it is that."

"It may be best for others."

"Do you mean for one other?" Margaret asked, and the girl bowed  her head. "Ah, Babbie, you speak like a child."

"You do not understand."

"I do not need to be told the circumstances to know this--that if  two people love each other, neither has any right to give the  other up."

Babbie turned impulsively to cast herself on the mercy of Gavin's  mother, but no word could she say; a hot tear fell from her eyes  "upon the coverlet, and then she looked at the door, as if to run  away.

"But I have been too inquisitive," Margaret began; whereupon  Babbie cried, "Oh no, no, no: you are very good. I have no one who  cares whether I do right or wrong."

"Your parents--"

"I have had none since I was a child."

"It is the more reason why I should be your friend," Margaret  said, taking the girl's hand.

"You do not know what you are saying. You cannot be my friend."

"Yes, dear, I love you already. You have a good face, Babbie, as  well as a beautiful one."

Babbie could remain in the room no longer. She bade Margaret good-  night and bent forward to kiss her; then drew back, like a Judas  ashamed.

"Why did you not kiss me?" Margaret asked in surprise, but poor  Babbie walked out of the room without answering.

Of what occurred at the manse on the following day until I reached  it, I need tell little more. When Babbie was tending Sam'l  Farquharson's child in the Tenements she learned of the flood in  Glen Quharity, and that the greater part of the congregation had  set off to the assistance of the farmers; but fearful as this made  her for Gavin's safety, she kept the new anxiety from his mother.  Deceived by another story of Jean's, Margaret was the one happy  person in the house.

"I believe you had only a lover's quarrel with Lord Rintoul last  night," she said to Babbie in the afternoon. "Ah, you see I can  guess what is taking you to the window so often. You must not  think him long in coming for you. I can assure you that the rain  which keeps my son from me must be sufficiently severe to separate  even true lovers. Take an old woman's example, Babbie. If I  thought the minister's absence alarming, I should be in anguish;  but as it is, my mind is so much at ease that, see, I can thread  my needle."

It was in less than an hour after Margaret spoke thus tranquilly  to Babbie that the precentor got into the manse.

CHAPTER XLII.   - MARGARET, THE PRECENTOR. AND GOD BETWEEN.

Unless Andrew Luke, who went to Canadas be still above ground, I  am now the only survivor of the few to whom Lang Tammas told what  passed in the manse parlor after the door closed on him and  Margaret. With the years the others lost the details, but before I  forget them the man who has been struck by lightning will look at  his arm without remembering what shrivelled it. There even came a  time when the scene seemed more vivid to me than to the precentor,  though that was only after he began to break up.

"She was never the kind o' woman," Whamond said, "that a body need  be nane feared at. You can see she is o' the timid sort. I couldna  hae selected a woman easier to speak bold out to, though I had  ha'en my pick o' them."

He was a gaunt man, sour and hard, and he often paused in his  story with a puzzled look on his forbidding face.

"But, man, she was so michty windy o' him. If he had wanted to put  a knife into her, I believe that woman would just hae telled him  to take care no to cut his hands. Ay, and what innocent-like she  was! If she had heard enough, afore I saw her, to make her uneasy,  I could hae begun at once; but here she was, shaking my hand and  smiling to me, so that aye when I tried to speak I gaed through  ither. Nobody can despise me for it, I tell you, mair than I  despise mysel'.

"I thocht to mysel', 'Let her hae her smile out, Tammas Whamond;  it's her hinmost,' Syne wi' shame at my cowardliness, I tried to  yoke to my duty as chief elder o' the kirk, and I said to her, as  thrawn as I could speak, 'Dinna thank me; I've done nothing for  you.'

"'I ken it wasna for me you did it,' she said, 'but for him; but,  oh, Mr. Whamond, will that make me think the less o' you? He's my  all,' she says, wi' that smile back in her face, and a look mixed  up wi't that said as plain, 'and I need no more.' I thocht o'  saying that some builds their house upon the sand, but--dagont,  dominie, it's a solemn thing the pride mithers has in their  laddies. I mind aince my ain mither--what the devil are you  glowering at, Andrew Luke? Do you think I'm greeting?

"'You'll sit down, Mr. Whamond,' she says next."

'"No, I winna,' I said, angry-like. 'I didna come here to sit.'"

"I could see she thocht I was shy at being in the manse parlor;  ay, and I thocht she was pleased at me looking shy. Weel, she took  my hat out o' my hand, and she put it on the chair at the door,  whaur there's aye an auld chair in grand houses for the servant to  sit on at family exercise.

"'You're a man, Mr. Whamond,' says she, 'that the minister  delights to honor, and so you'll oblige me by sitting in his own  armchair.'"

Gavin never quite delighted to honor the precentor, of whom he was  always a little afraid, and perhaps Margaret knew it. But you must  not think less of her for wanting to gratify her son's chief  elder. She thought, too, that he had just done her a service. I  never yet knew a good woman who did not enjoy flattering men she  liked.

"I saw my chance at that," Whamond went on, "and I says to her  sternly, 'In worldly position,' I says, 'I'm a common man, and  it's no for the like o' sic to sit in a minister's chair; but it  has been God's will,' I says,' to wrap around me the mantle o'  chief elder o' the kirk, and if the minister falls awa frae grace,  it becomes my duty to take his place.'

"If she had been looking at me, she maun hae grown feared at that,  and syne I could hae gone on though my ilka word was a knockdown  blow. But she was picking some things aff the chair to let me down  on't.

"'It's a pair o' mittens I'm working for the minister,' she says,  and she handed them to me. Ay, I tried no to take them, but--Oh,  lads, it's queer to think how saft I was.

"'He's no to ken about them till they're finished,' she says,  terrible fond-like.

"The words came to my mouth, 'They'll never be finished,' and I  could hae cursed mysel' for no saying them. I dinna ken how it  was, but there was something; pitiful in seeing her take up the  mittens and begin working cheerily at one, and me kenning all the  time that they would never be finished. I watched her fingers, and  I said to mysel', 'Another stitch, and that maun be your last.' I  said that to mysel' till I thocht it was the needle that said it,  and I wondered at her no hearing.

"In the tail o' the day I says, 'You needna bother; he'll never  wear them,' and they sounded sic words o' doom that I rose up off  the chair. Ay, but she took me up wrang, and she said, 'I see you  have noticed how careless o' his ain comforts he is, and that in  his zeal he forgets to put on his mittens, though they may be in  his pocket a' the time. Ay,' says she, confident-like, 'but he  winna forget these mittens, Mr. Whamond, and I'll tell you the  reason: it's because they're his mother's work.'

"I stamped my foot, and she gae me an apologetic look, and she  says, 'I canna help boasting about his being so fond o' me.'

"Ay, but here was me saying to mysel', 'Do your duty, Tammas  Whamond; you sluggard, your duty, and without lifting my een frae  her fingers I said sternly, 'The chances are,' I said, 'that these  mittens will never be worn by the hands they are worked for.'

"'You mean,' says she,' that he'll gie them awa to some ill-off  body, as he gies near a' thing he has? Ay, but there's one thing  he never parts wi', and that's my work. There's a young lady in  the manse the now,' says she, 'that offered to finish the mittens  for me, but he would value them less if I let ony other body put a  stitch into them.'

"I thocht to mysel', 'Tammas Whamond, the Lord has opened a door  to you, and you'll be disgraced forever if you dinna walk straucht  in.' So I rose again, and I says, boldly this time, 'Whaur's that  young leddy? I hae something to say to her that canna be kept  waiting.'

"'She's up the stair,' she says, surprised, 'but you canna ken  her, Mr. Whamond, for she just came last nicht.'"

'"I ken mair o' her than you think,' says I; 'I ken what brocht  her here, and ken wha she thinks she is to be married to, and I've  come to tell her that she'll never get him.'"

'"How no?' she said, amazed like.

"'Because,' said I, wi' my teeth thegither, 'he is already  married.'

"Lads, I stood waiting to see her fall, and when she didna fall I  just waited langer, thinking she was slow in taking it a' in.

"'I see you ken wha she is,' she said, looking at me, 'and yet I  canna credit your news.'

"'They're true,' I cries.

"'Even if they are,' says she, considering, 'it may be the best  thing that could happen to baith o' them.'

"I sank back in the chair in fair bewilderment, for I didna ken at  that time, as we a' ken now, that she was thinking o' the earl  when I was thinking o' her son. Dominie, it looked to me as if the  Lord had opened a door to me, and syne shut it in my face.

"Syne wi' me sitting there in a kind o' awe o' the woman's  simpleness, she began to tell me what the minister was like when  he was a bairn, and I was saying a' the time to mysel', 'You're  chief elder o' the kirk, Tammas Whamond, and you maun speak out  the next time she stops to draw breath.' They were terrible sma',  common things she telled me, sic as near a' mithers minds about  their bairns, but the kind o' holy way she said them drove my  words down my throat, like as if I was some infidel man trying to  break out wi' blasphemy in a--kirk.

"'I'll let you see something,' says she, 'that I ken will interest  you .' She brocht it out o' a drawer, and what do you thitik it  was? As sure as death it was no more than some o' his hair when he  was a litlin, and it was tied up sic carefully in paper that you  would hae thocht it was some valuable thing.

"'Mr. Whamond,' she says solemnly, 'you've come thrice to the  manse to keep me frae being uneasy about my son's absence, and you  was the chief instrument under God in bringing him to Thrums, and  I'll gie you a little o' that hair.'

"Dagont, what did I care about his hair? and yet to see her  fondling it! I says to myself, 'Mrs. Dishart,' I says to mysel',  'I was the chief instrument under God in bringing him to Thrums,  and I've come here to tell you that I'm to be the chief instrument  under God in driving him out o't.' Ay, but when I focht to bring  out these words, my mouth snecked like a box.

"'Dinna gie me his hair,' was a' I could say, and I wouldna take  it frae her; but she laid it in my hand, and--and syne what could  I do? Ay, it's easy to speak about thae things now, and to wonder  how I could hae so disgraced the position o' chief elder o' the  kirk, but I tell you I was near greeting for the woman. Call me  names, dominie; I deserve them all."

I did not call Whamond names for being reluctant to break  Margaret's heart. Here is a confession I may make. Sometimes I say  my prayers at night in a hurry, going on my knees indeed, but with  as little reverence as I take a drink of water before jumping into  bed, and for the same reason, because it is my nightly habit. I am  only pattering words I have by heart to a chair then, and should  be as well employed writing a comic Bible. At such times I pray  for the earthly well-being of the precentor, though he has been  dead for many years. He crept into my prayers the day he told me  this story, and was part of them for so long that when they are  only a recitation he is part of them still.

"She said to me," Whamond continued, "that the women o' the  congregation would be fond to handle the hair. Could I tell her  that the women was waur agin him than the men? I shivered to hear  her.

"'Syne when they're a'sitting breathless listening to his  preaching,' she says, 'they'll be able to picture him as a bairn,  just as I often do in the kirk mysel'.'

"Andrew Luke, you're sneering at me, but I tell you if you had  been there and had begun to say, 'He'll preach in our kirk no  more,' I would hae struck you. And I'm chief elder o' the kirk.

"She says, 'Oh, Mr. Whamond, there's times in the kirk when he is  praying, and the glow on his face is hardly mortal, so that I fall  a-shaking, wi' a mixture fear and pride, me being his mother; and  sinful though I am to say it, I canna help thinking at sic times  that I ken what the mother o' Jesus had in her heart when she  found Him in the temple.'

"Dominie, it's sax-and-twenty years since I was made an elder o'  the kirk. I mind the day as if it was yestreen. Mr. Carfrae made  me walk hame wi' him, and he took me into the manse parlor, and he  set me in that very chair. It was the first time I was ever in the  manse. Ay, he little thocht that day in his earnestness, and I  little thocht mysel' in the pride o' my lusty youth, that the time  was coming when I would sweat in that reverenced parlor. I say  swear, dominie, for when she had finished I jumped to my feet, and  I cried, 'Hell!' and I lifted up my hat. And I was chief elder.

"She fell back frae my oath," he said, "and syne she took my  sleeve and speired, 'What has come ower you, Mr. Whamond? Hae you  onything on your mind?'

"'I've sin on it,' I roared at her. 'I have neglect o' duty on it.  I am one o' them that cries "Lord, Lord," and yet do not the  things which He commands. He has pointed out the way to me, and I  hinna followed it.'

"'What is it you hinna done that you should hae done?' she said.  'Oh, Mr. Whamond, if you want my help, it's yours.'

"'Your son's a' the earth to you,' I cried, 'but my eldership's as  muckle to me. Sax-and-twenty years hae I been an elder, and now I  maun gie it up.'

"'Wha says that?" she speirs.

"'I say it,' I cried. 'I've shirked my duty. I gie ap my eldership  now. Tammas Whamond is no langer an elder o' the kirk;' ay, and I  was chief elder.

"Dominie, I think she began to say that when the minister came  hame he wouldna accept my resignation, but I paid no heed to her.  You ken what was the sound that keeped my ears frae her words; it  was the sound o' a machine coming yont the Tenements. You ken what  was the sicht that made me glare through the window instead o'  looking at her; it was the sicht o' Mr. Dishart in the machine. I  couldna speak, but I got my body atween her and the window, for I  heard shouting, and I couldna doubt that it was the folk cursing  him.

"But she heard too, she heard too, and she squeezed by me to the  window, I couldna look out; I just walked saft-like to the parlor  door, but afore I reached it she cried joyously--

"'It's my son come back, and see how fond o' him they are! They  are running at the side o' the machine, and the laddies are  tossing their bonnets in the air.'

"'God help you, woman!' I said to mysel', 'it canna be bonnets--  it's stanes and divits mair likely that they're flinging at him.'  Syne I creeped out o' the manse. Dominie, you mind I passed you in  the kitchen, and didna say a word?"

Yes, I saw the precentor pass through the kitchen, with such a  face on him as no man ever saw him wear again. Since Tammas  Whamond died we have had to enlarge the Thrums cemetery twice; so  it can matter not at all to him, and but little to me, what you  who read think of him. All his life children ran from him. He was  the dourest, the most unlovable man in Thrums. But may my right  hand wither, and may my tongue be cancer-bitten, and may my mind  be gone into a dry rot, before I forget what he did for me and  mine that day!

CHAPTER XLIII.   - RAIN--MIST--THE JAWS.

To this day we argue in the glen about the sound mistaken by many  of us for the firing of the Spittal cannon, some calling it  thunder and others the tearing of trees in the torrent. I think it  must have been the roll of stones into the Quharity from Silver  Hill, of which a corner has been missing since that day. Silver  Hill is all stones, as if creation had been riddled there, and in  the sun the mica on them shines like many pools of water.

At the roar, as they thought, of the cannon, the farmers looked up  from their struggle with the flood to say, "That's Rintoul  married," as clocks pause simultaneously to strike the hour. Then  every one in the glen save Gavin and myself was done with Rintoul.  Before the hills had answered the noise, Gavin was on his way to  the Spittal. The dog must have been ten minutes in overtaking him,  yet he maintained afterward that it was with him from the start.  From this we see that the shock he had got carried him some  distance before he knew that he had left the school-house. It also  gave him a new strength, that happily lasted longer than his daze  of mind.

Gavin moved northward quicker than I came south, climbing over or  wading through his obstacles, while I went round mine. After a  time, too, the dog proved useful, for on discovering that it was  going homeward it took the lead, and several times drew him to the  right road to the Spittal by refusing to accompany him on the  wrong road. Yet in two hours he had walked perhaps nine miles  without being four miles nearer the Spittal. In that flood the  glen milestones were three miles apart.

For some time he had been following the dog doubtfully, for it  seemed to be going too near the river. When they struck a cart-  track, however, he concluded rightly that they were nearing a  bridge. His faith in his guide was again tested before they had  been many minutes on this sloppy road. The dog stopped, whined,  looked irresolute, and then ran to the right, disappearing into  the mist in an instant. He shouted to it to come back, and was  surprised to hear a whistle in reply. This was sufficient to make  him dash after the dog, and in less than a minute he stopped  abruptly by the side of a shepherd.

"Have you brocht it?" the man cried almost into Gavin's ear; yet  the roar of the water was so tremendous that the words came  faintly, as if from a distance. "Wae is me; is it only you, Mr.  Dishart?"

"Is it only you!" No one in the glen would have addressed a  minister thus except in a matter of life of death, and Gavin knew  it.

"He'll be ower late," the shepherd exclaimed, rubbing his hands  together in distress. "I'm speaking o' Whinbusses' grieve. He has  run for ropes, but he'll be ower late."

"Is there some one in danger?" asked Gavin, who stood, he knew not  where, with this man, enveloped in mist.

"Is there no? Look!"

"There is nothing to be seen but mist; where are we?"

"We're on the high bank o' the Quharity. Take care, man; you was  stepping ower into the roaring water. Lie down and tell me if he's  there yet. Maybe I just think that I see him, for the sicht is  painted on my een."

Gavin lay prone and peered at the river, but the mist came up to  his eyes. He only knew that the river was below from the sound.

"Is there a man down there?" he asked, shuddering.

"There was a minute syne; on a bit island."

"Why does he not speak?"

"He is senseless. Dinna move; the mist's clearing, and you'll see  if he's there syne. The mist has been lifting and falling that way  ilka minute since me and the grieve saw him."

The mist did not rise. It only shook like a blanket, and then  again remained stationary. But in that movement Gavin had seen  twice, first incredulously. and then with conviction.

"Shepherd," he said, rising, "it is Lord Rintoul."

"Ay, it's him; and you saw his feet was in the water. They were  dry when the grieve left me. Mr. Dishart, the ground he is on is  being washed awa bit by bit. I tell you, the flood's greedy for  him, and it'll hae him---Look, did you see him again?"

"Is he living?"

"We saw him move. Hst! Was that a cry?"

It was only the howling of the dog, which had recognized its  master and was peering over the bank, the body quivering to jump,  but the legs restless with indecision.

"If we were down there," Gavin said, "we could hold him secure  till rescue comes. It is no great jump."

"How far would you make it? I saw him again!"

"It looked further that time."

"That's it! Sometimes the ground he is on looks so near that you  think you could almost drop on it, and the next time it's yards  and yards awa. I've stood ready for the spring, Mr. Dishart, a  dozen times, but I aye sickened. I daurna do it. Look at the dog;  just when it's starting to jump, it pulls itsel' back."

As if it had heard the shepherd, the dog jumped at that instant.

"It sprang too far," Gavin said.

"It didna spring far enough."

They waited, and presently the mist thinned for a moment, as if it  was being drawn out. They saw the earl, but there was no dog.

"Poor brute," said the shepherd, and looked with awe at Gavin.

"Rintotil is slipping into the water," Gavin answered. "You won't  jump?"

"No, I'm wae for him, and--"

"Then I will," Gavin was about to say, but the shepherd continued,  "And him only married twa hours syne."

That kept the words in Gavin's mouth for half a minute, and then  he spoke them.

"Dinna think o't," cried the shepherd, taking him by the coat.  "The ground he is on is slippery. I've flung a dozen stanes at it,  and them that hit it slithered off. Though you landed in the  middle o't, you would slide into the water."

"He shook himsel' free o' me," the shepherd told afterward, "and I  saw him bending down and measuring the distance wi' his een as  cool as if he was calculating a drill o' tatties. Syne I saw his  lips moving in prayer. It wasna spunk he needed to pray for,  though. Next minute there was me, my very arms prigging wi' him to  think better o't, and him standing ready to loup, has knees bent,  and not a tremble in them. The mist lifted, and I---Lads, I  couldna gie a look to the earl. Mr. Dishart jumped; I hardly saw  him, but I kent, I kent, for I was on the bank alane. What did I  do? I flung mysel' down in a sweat, and if een could bore mist  mine would hae done it. I thocht I heard the minister's death-cry,  and may I be struck if I dinna believe now that it was a skirl o'  my ain. After that there was no sound but the jaw o' the water;  and I prayed, but no to God, to the mist to rise, and after an  awful time it rose, and I saw the minister was safe; he had pulled  the earl into the middle o' the bit island and was rubbing him  back to consciousness. I sweat when I think o't yet."

The Little Minister's jump is always spoken of as a brave act in  the glen, but at such times I am silent. This is not because,  being timid myself, I am without admiration for courage. My little  maid says that three in every four of my poems are to the praise  of prowess, and she has not forgotten how I carried her on my  shoulder once to Tilliedrum to see a soldier who had won the  Victoria Cross, and made her shake hands with him, though he was  very drunk. Only last year one of my scholars declared to me that  Nelson never said "England expects every man this day to do his  duty," for which I thrashed the boy and sent him to the cooling-  stone. But was it brave of Gavin to jump? I have heard some  maintain that only misery made him so bold, and others that he  jumped because it seemed a fine thing to risk his life for an  enemy. But these are really charges of cowardice, and my boy was  never a coward. Of the two kinds of courage, however, he did not  then show the nobler. I am glad that he was ready for such an act,  but he should have remembered Margaret and Babbie. As it was, he  may be said to have forced them to jump with him. Not to attempt a  gallant deed for which one has the impulse, may be braver than the  doing of it.

"Though it seemed as lang time," the shepherd says, "as I could  hae run up a hill in, I dinna suppose it was many minutes afore I  saw Rintoul opening and shutting his een. The next glint I had o'  them they were speaking to ane another; ay, and mair than  speaking. They were quarrelling. I couldna hear their words, but  there was a moment when I thocht they were to grapple. Lads, the  memory o' that'll hing about deathbed. There was twa men, edicated  to the highest pitch, ane a lord and the other a minister, and the  flood was taking awa a mouthful o' their footing ilka minute, and  the jaws o' destruction was gaping for them, and yet they were  near fechting. We ken now it was about a woman. Ay, but does that  make it less awful?"

No, that did not make it less awful. It was even awful that  Gavin's first words when Rintoul opened his eyes and closed them  hastily were, "Where is she?" The earl did not answer; indeed, for  the moment the words had no meaning to him.

"How did I come here?" he asked feebly.

"You should know better than I. Where is my wife?"

"I remember now," Rintoul repeated several times. "Yes, I had left  the Spittal to look for you--you were so long in coming. How did I  find you?"

"It was I who found you," Gavin answered. "You must have been  swept away by the flood."

"And you too?"

In a few words Gavin told how he came to be beside the earl.

"I suppose they will say you have saved my life," was Rintoul's  commentary.

"It is not saved yet. If help does not come, we shall be dead men  in an hour. What have you done with my wife?"

Rintoul ceased to listen to him, and shouted sums of money to the  shepherd, who shook his head and bawled an answer that neither  Gavin nor the earl heard. Across that thundering water only  Gavin's voice could carry, the most powerful ever heard in a  Thrums pulpit, the one voice that could be heard all over the  Commonty during the time of the tent-preaching. Yet he never  roared, as some preachers do of whom we say, "Ah, if they could  hear the Little Minister's word!"

Gavin caught the gesticulating earl by the sleeve. and said,  "Another man has gone for ropes. Now, listen to me; how dared you  go through a marriage ceremony with her, knowing her already to be  my wife?"

Rintoul did listen this time.

"How do you know I married her?" he asked sharply,

"I heard the cannon."

Now the earl understood, and the shadow on his face shook and  lifted, and his teeth gleamed. His triumph might be short-lived,  but he would enjoy it while he could.

"Well," he answered, picking the pebbles for his sling with care,  "you must know that I could not have married her against her will.  The frolic on the hill amused her, but she feared you might think  it serious, and so pressed me to proceed with her marriage to-day  despite the flood."

This was the point at which the shepherd saw the minister raise  his fist. It fell, however, without striking.

"Do you really think that I could doubt her?" Gavin, said  compassionately, and for the second time in twenty-four hours the  earl learned that he did not know what love is.

For a full minute they had forgotten where they were. Now, again,  the water seemed to break loose, so that both remembered their  danger simultaneously and looked up. The mist parted for long  enough to show them that where had only been the shepherd was now  a crowd of men, with here and there a woman. Before the mist again  came between the minister had recognized many members of his  congregation.

In his unsuccessful attempt to reach Whinbusses. the grieve had  met the relief party from Thrums. Already the weavers had helped  Waster Lunny to stave off ruin, and they were now on their way to  Whinbusses, keeping together through fear of mist and water. Every  few minutes Snecky Hobart rang his bell to bring in stragglers.

"Follow me," was all the panting grieve could say at first, but  his agitation told half his story. They went with turn patiently,  only stopping once, and then excitedly, for they come suddenly on  Rob Dow. Rob was still lying a prisoner beneath the tree, and the  grieve now remembered that he had fallen over this tree, and  neither noticed the man under it nor been noticed by the man.  Fifty hands released poor Dow, and two men were commissioned to  bring him along slowly while the others hurried to the rescue of  the earl. They were amazed to learn from the shepherd that Mr.  Dishart also was in danger, and after" Is there a woman wi' him?"  some cried," He'll get off cheap wi' drowning," and "It's the  judgment o' God."

The island on which the two men stood was now little bigger than  the round tables common in Thrums, and its centre was some feet  farther from the bank than when Gavin jumped. A woman, looking  down at it, sickened, and would have toppled into the water, had  not John Spens clutched her. Others were so stricken with awe that  they forgot they had hands.

Peter Tosh, the elder, cast a rope many times, but it would not  carry. The one end was then weighted with a heavy stone, and the  other tied round the waists of two men. But the force of the river  had been underestimated. The stone fell short into the torrent,  which rushed off with it so furiously that the men were flung upon  their faces and trailed to the verge of the precipice. A score of  persons sprang to their rescue, and the rope snapped. There was  only one other rope, and its fate was not dissimilar. This time  the stone fell into the water beyond the island, and immediately  rushed down stream. Gavin seized the rope, but it pressed against  his body, and would have pushed him off his feet had not Tosh cut  it. The trunk of the tree that had fallen on Rob Dow was next  dragged to the bank and an endeavor made to form a sloping bridge  of it. The island, however, was now soft and unstable, and, though  the trunk was successfully lowered, it only knocked lumps off the  island, and finally it had to be let go, as the weavers could not  pull it back. It splashed into the water, and was at once whirled  out of sight. Some of the party on the bank began hastily to  improvise a rope of cravats and the tags of the ropes still left,  but the mass stood helpless and hopeless.

"You may wonder that we could have stood still, waiting to see the  last o' them," Birse, the post, has said to me in the school-  house, "but, dominie, I couldna hae moved, magre my neck. I'm a  hale man, but if this minute we was to hear the voice o' the  Almighty saying solemnly, 'Afore the clock strikes again, Birse,  the post, will fall down dead of heart disease,' what do you think  you would do? I'll tell you. You would stand whaur you are, and  stare, tongue-tied, at me till I dropped. How do I ken? By the  teaching o' that nicht. Ay, but there's a mair important thing I  dinna ken, and that is whether I would be palsied wi' fear like  the earl, or face death with the calmness o' the minister."

Indeed, the contrast between Rintoul and Gavin was now impressive.  When Tosh signed that the weavers had done their all and failed,  the two men looked in each other's faces, and Gavin's face was  firm and the earl's working convulsively. The people had given up  attempting to communicate with Gavin save by signs, for though  they heard his sonorous voice, when he pitched it at them, they  saw that he caught few words of theirs. "He heard our skirls,"  Birse said, "but couldna grip the words ony mair than we could  hear the earl. And yet we screamed, and the minister didna. I've  heard o' Highlandmen wi' the same gift, so that they could be  heard across a glen."

"We must prepare for death," Gavin said solemnly to the earl, "and  it is for your own sake that I again ask you to tell me the truth.  Worldly matters are nothing to either of us now, but I implore you  not to carry a lie into your Maker's presence."

"I will not give up hope," was all Rintoul's answer, and he again  tried to pierce the mist with offers of reward. After that he  became doggedly silent, fixing his eyes on the ground at his feet.  I have a notion that he had made up his mind to confess the truth  about Babbie when the water had eaten the island as far as the  point at which he was now looking.

CHAPTER XLIV.   - END OF THE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.

Out of the mist came the voice of Gavin, clear and strong--

"If you hear me, hold up your hands as a sign."

They heard, and none wondered at his voice crossing the chasm  while theirs could not. When the mist cleared, they were seen to  have done as he bade them. Many hands remained up for a time  because the people did not remember to bring them down, so great  was the awe that had fallen on all, as if the Lord was near.

Gavin took his watch from his pocket, and he said--

"I am to fling this to you. You will give it to Mr. Ogilvy, the  schoolmaster, as a token of the love I bear him."

The watch was caught by James Langlands, and handed to Peter Tosh,  the chief elder present.

"To Mr. Ogilvy," Gavin continued, "you will also give the chain.  You will take it off my neck when you find the body.

"To each of my elders, and to Hendry Munn, kirk officer, and to my  servant Jean, I leave a book, and they will go to my study and  choose it for themselves.

"I also leave a book for Nanny Webster, and I charge you, Peter  Tosh, to take it to her, though she be not a member of my church.

"The pictorial Bible with 'To my son on his sixth birthday' on it,  I bequeath to Rob Dow. No, my mother will want to keep that. I  give to Rob Dow my Bible with the brass clasp.

"It is my wish that every family in the congregation should have  some little thing to remember me by. This you will tell my mother.

"To my successor I leave whatsoever of my papers he may think of  any value to him, including all my notes on Revelation, of which I  meant to make a book. I hope he will never sing the paraphrases.

"If Mr. Carfrae's health permits, you will ask him to preach the  funeral sermon; but if he be too frail, then you will ask Mr.  Trail, under whom I sat in Glasgow. The illustrated 'Pilgrim's  Progress' on the drawers in my bedroom belongs to Mr. Trail, and  you will return it to him with my affection and compliments.

"I owe five shillings to Hendry Munn for mending my boots, and a  smaller sum to Baxter, the mason. I have two pounds belonging to  Rob Dow, who asked me to take charge of them for him. I owe no  other man anything, and this you will bear in mind if Matthew  Cargill, the flying stationer, again brings forward a claim for  the price of Whiston's 'Josephus,' which I did not buy from him.

"Mr. Moncur, of Aberbrothick, had agreed to assist me at the  Sacrament, and will doubtless still lend his services. Mr. Carfrae  or Mr. Trail will take my place if my successor is not elected by  that time. The Sacrament cups are in the vestry press, of which  you will find the key beneath the clock in my parlor. The tokens  are in the topmost drawer in my bedroom.

"The weekly prayer-meeting will be held as usual on Thursday at  eight o'clock, and the elders will officiate.

"It is my wish that the news of my death be broken to my mother by  Mr. Ogilvy, the schoolmaster, and by no other. You will say to him  that this is my solemn request, and that I bid him discharge it  without faltering and be of good cheer.

"But if Mr. Ogilvy be not now alive, the news of my death will be  broken to my mother by my beloved wife. Last night I was married  on the hill, over the tongs, but with the sanction of God, to her  whom you call the Egyptian, and despite what has happened since  then, of which you will soon have knowledge, I here solemnly  declare that she is my wife, and you will seek for her at the  Spittal or elsewhere till you find her, and you will tell her to  go to my mother and remain with her always, for these are the  commands of her husband."

It was then that Gavin paused, for Lord Rintoul had that to say to  him which no longer could be kept back. All the women were crying  sore, and also some men whose eyes had been dry at the coffining  of their children.

"Now I ken," said Cruickshanks, who had been an atheist, "that  it's only the fool wha' says in his heart, 'There is no God.'"

Another said, "That's a man."

Another said, "That man has a religion to last him all through."

A fourth said, "Behold, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand."

A fifth said, "That's our minister. He's the minister o' the Auld  Licht Kirk o' Thrums. Woe is me, we're to lose him."

Many cried, "Our hearts was set hard against him. O Lord, are you  angry wi' your servants that you're taking him frae us just when  we ken what he is?"

Gavin did not hear them, and again he spoke:

"My brethren, God is good. I have just learned that my wife is  with my dear mother at the manse. I leave them in your care and in  His."

No more he said of Babbie, for the island was become very small.

"The Lord calls me hence. It is only for a little time I have been  with you, and now I am going away, and you will know me no more.  Too great has been my pride because I was your minister, but He  who sent me to labor among you is slow to wrath; and He ever bore  in mind that you were my first charge. My people, I must say to  you, 'Farewell.'"

Then, for the first time, his voice faltered, and wanting--to go  on he could not. "Let us read," he said, quickly, "in the Word of  God in the fourteenth of Matthew, from the twenty-eighth verse."

He repeated these four verses:--

"'And Peter answered Him and said, Lord, if it be Thou, bid me  come unto Thee on the water.

"'And He said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship,  he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.

"'But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and  beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

"'And immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand and caught him,  and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou  doubt?'"

After this Gavin's voice was again steady, and he said, "The sand-  glass is almost run out. Dearly beloved, with what words shall I  bid you good-by?"

Many thought that these were to be the words, for the mist parted,  and they saw the island tremble and half of it sink.

"My people," said the voice behind the mist, "this is the text I  leave with you: 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,  where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through  and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where  neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break  through nor steal.' That text I read in the flood, where the hand  of God has written it. All the pound-notes in the world would not  dam this torrent for a moment, so that we might pass over to you  safely. Yet it is but a trickle of water, soon to be dried up.  Verily, I say unto you, only a few hours ago the treasures of  earth stood between you and this earl, and what are they now  compared to this trickle of water? God only can turn rivers into a  wilderness, and the water-springs into dry ground. Let His Word be  a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path; may He be your  refuge and your strength. Amen."

This amen he said quickly, thinking death was now come. He was  seen to raise his hands, but whether to Heaven or involuntarily to  protect his face as he fell none was sure, for the mist again  filled the chasm. Then came a clap of stillness. No one breathed.

But the two men were not yet gone, and Gavin spoke once more.

"Let us sing in the twenty-third Psalm."

He himself raised the tune and so long as they heard Ms voice they  sang--

"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want;      He makes me down to lie     In pastures green; He leadeth me      The quiet waters by.

"My soul He doth restore again;      And me to walk doth make     Within the paths of righteousness      Ev'n for His own name's sake.

"Yea, though I walk in Death's dark vale,      Yet will I fear none ill;     For Thou art with me; and Thy rod      And staff--"

But some had lost the power to sing in the first verse, and others  at "Death's dark vale," and when one man found himself singing  alone he stopped abruptly. This was because they no longer heard  the minister.

"O Lord!" Peter Tosh cried, "lift the mist, for it's mair than we  can bear."

The mist rose slowly, and those who had courage to look saw Gavin  praying with the earl. Many could not look, and some of them did  not even see Rob Dow jump.

For it was Dow, the man with the crushed leg, who saved Gavin's  life, and flung away his own for it. Suddenly he was seen on the  edge of the bank, holding one end of the improvised rope in his  hand. As Tosh says--

"It all happened in the opening and shutting o' an eye. It's a  queer thing to say, but though I prayed to God to take awa the  mist, when He did raise it I couldna look. I shut my een tight,  and held my arm afore my face, like ane feared o' being struck.  Even when I daured to look, my arm was shaking so that I could see  Rob both above it and below it. He was on the edge, crouching to  leap. I didna see wha had haud o' the other end o' the rope. I  heard the minister cry, 'No, Dow, no!' and it gae through me as  quick as a stab that if Rob jumped he would knock them both into  the water. But he did jump, and you ken how it was that he didna  knock them off."

It was because he had no thought of saving his own life. He  jumped, not at the island, now little bigger than the seat of a  chair, but at the edge of it, into the foam, and with his arm  outstretched. For a second the hand holding the rope was on the  dot of land. Gavin tried to seize the hand; Rintoul clutched the  rope. The earl and the minister were dragged together into safety,  and both left the water senseless. Gavin was never again able to  lift his left hand higher than his head. Dow's body was found next  day near the school-house.

TALK OF A LITTLE MAID SINCE GROWN TALL,

My scholars have a game they call "The Little Minister," in which  the boys allow the girls as a treat to join. Some of the  characters in the real drama are omitted as of no importance--the  dominie, for instance--and the two best fighters insist on being  Dow and Gavin. I notice that the game is finished when Dow dives  from a haystack, and Gavin and the earl are dragged to the top of  it by a rope. Though there should be another scene, it is only a  marriage, which the girls have, therefore, to go through without  the help of the boys. This warns me that I have come to an end of  my story for all except my little maid. In the days when she sat  on my knee and listened it had no end, for after I told her how  her father and mother were married a second time she would say,  "And then I came, didn't I? Oh, tell me about me!" So it happened  that when she was no higher than my staff she knew more than I  could write in another book, and many a time she solemnly told me  what I had told her, as--

"Would you like me to tell you a story? Well, it's about a  minister, and the people wanted to be bad to him, and then there  was a flood, and a flood is lochs falling instead of rain, and so  of course he was nearly drownded, and he preached to them till  they liked him again, and so they let him marry her, and they like  her awful too, and, just think! it was my father; and that's all.  Now tell me about grandmother when father came home."

I told her once again that Margaret never knew how nearly Gavin  was driven from his kirk. For Margaret was as one who goes to bed  in the daytime and wakes in it, and is not told that there has  been a black night while she slept. She had seen her son leave the  manse the idol of his people, and she saw them rejoicing as they  brought him back. Of what occurred at the Jaws, as the spot where  Dow had saved two lives is now called, she learned, but not that  these Jaws snatched him and her from an ignominy more terrible  than death, for she never knew that the people had meditated  driving him from his kirk. This Thrums is bleak and perhaps  forbidding, but there is a moment of the day when a setting sun  dyes it pink, and the people are like their town. Thrums was never  colder in times of snow than were his congregation to their  minister when the Great Rain began, but his fortitude rekindled  their hearts. He was an obstinate minister, and love had led him a  dance, but in the hour of trial he had proved himself a man.

When Gavin reached the manse, and saw not only his mother but  Babbie, he would have kissed them both; but Babbie could only say,  "She does not know," and then run away crying. Gavin put his arm  round his mother, and drew her into the parlor, where he told her  who Babbie was. Now Margaret had begun to love Babbie already, and  had prayed to see Gavin happily married; but it was a long time  before she went upstairs to look for his wife and kiss her and  bring her down. "Why was it a long time?" my little maid would  ask, and I had to tell her to wait until she was old, and had a  son, when she would find out for herself.

While Gavin and the earl were among the waters, two men were on  their way to Mr. Carfrae's home, to ask him to return with them  and preach the Auld Licht kirk of Thrums vacant; and he came,  though now so done that he had to be wheeled about in a little  coach. He came in sorrow, yet resolved to perform what was asked  of him if it seemed God's will; but, instead of banishing Gavin,  all he had to do was to remarry him and kirk him, both of which  things he did, sitting in his coach, as many can tell. Lang Tammas  spoke no more against Gavin, but he would not go to the marriage,  and he insisted on resigning his eldership for a year and a day. I  think he only once again spoke to Margaret. She was in the manse  garden when he was passing, and she asked him if he would tell her  now why he had been so agitated when he visited her on the day of  the flood. He answered gruffly, "It's no business o' yours." Dr.  McQueen was Gavin's best man. He died long ago of scarlet fever.  So severe was the epidemic that for a week he was never in bed. He  attended fifty cases without suffering, but as soon as he had bent  over Hendry Munn's youngest boys, who both had it, he said, "I'm  smitted," and went home to die. You may be sure that Gavin proved  a good friend to Micah Dow. I have the piece of slate on which Rob  proved himself a good friend to Gavin; it was in his pocket when  we found the body. Lord Rintoul returned to his English estates,  and never revisited the Spittal. The last thing I heard of him was  that he had been offered the Lord-Lieutenantship of a county, and  had accepted it in a long letter, in which he began by pointing  out his unworthiness. This undid him, for the Queen, or her  councillors, thinking from his first page that he had declined the  honor, read no further, and appointed another man. Waster Lunny is  still alive, but has gone to another farm. Sanders Webster, in his  gratitude, wanted Nanny to become an Auld Licht, but she refused,  saying, "Mr. Dishart is worth a dozen o' Mr. Duthie, and I'm  terrible fond o' Mrs. Dishart, but Established I was born and  Established I'll remain till I'm carried out o' this house feet  foremost."

"But Nanny went to Heaven for all that," my little maid told me.  "Jean says people can go to Heaven though they are not Auld  Lichts, but she says it takes them all their time. Would you like  me to tell you a story about my mother putting glass on the manse  dike? Well, my mother and my father is very fond of each other,  and once they was in the garden, and my father kissed my mother,  and there was a woman watching them over the dike, and she cried  out--something naughty."

"It was Tibbie Birse," I said, "and what she cried was, 'Mercy on  us, that's the third time in half an hour!' So your mother, who  heard her, was annoyed, and put glass on the wall."

"But it's me that is telling you the story. You are sure you don't  know it? Well, they asked father to take the glass away, and he  wouldn't; but he once preached at mother for having a white  feather in her bonnet, and another time he preached at her for  being too fond of him. Jean told me. That's all."

No one seeing Babbie going to church demurely on Gavin's arm could  guess her history. Sometimes I wonder whether the desire to be a  gypsy again ever comes over her for a mad hour, and whether, if  so, Gavin takes such measures to cure her as he threatened in  Caddam Wood. I suppose not; but here is another story:

"When I ask mother to tell me about her once being a gypsy she  says I am a bad 'quisitive little girl, and to put on my hat and  come with her to the prayer-meeting; and when I asked father to  let me see mother's gypsy frock he made me learn Psalm forty-eight  by heart. But once I see'd it, and it was a long time ago, as long  as a week ago. Micah Dow gave me rowans to put in my hair, and I  like Micah because he calls me Miss, and so I woke in my bed  because there was noises, and I ran down to the parlor, and there  was my mother in her gypsy frock, and my rowans was in her hair,  and my father was kissing her, and when they saw me they jumped;  and that's all."

"Would you like me to tell you another story? It is about a little  girl. Well, there was once a minister and his wife, and they  hadn't no little girls, but just little boys, and God was sorry  for them, so He put a little girl in a cabbage in the garden, and  when they found her they were glad. Would you like me to tell you  who the little girl was? Well, it was me, and, ugh! I was awful  cold in the cabbage. Do you like that story?"

"Yes; I like it best of all the stories I know."

"So do I like it, too. Couldn't nobody help loving me, 'cause I'm  so nice? Why am I so fearful nice?"

"Because you are like your grandmother."

"It was clever of my father to know when he found me in the  cabbage that my name was Margaret. Are you sorry grandmother is  dead?"

"I am glad your mother and father were so good to her and made her  so happy."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"But when I am happy I laugh."

"I am old, you see, and you are young."

"I am nearly six. Did you love grandmother? Then why did you never  come to see her? Did grandmother know you was here? Why not? Why  didn't I not know about you till after grandmother died?"

"I'll tell you when you are big."

"Shall I be big enough when I am six?"

"No, not till your eighteenth birthday."

"But birthdays comes so slow. Will they come quicker when I am  big?"

"Much quicker."

On her sixth birthday Micah Dow drove my little maid to the  school-house in the doctor's gig, and she crept beneath the table  and whispered--

"Grandfather!"

"Father told me to call you that if I liked, and I like," she said  when I had taken her upon my knee. "I know why you kissed me just  now. It was because I looked like grandmother. Why do you kiss me  when I look like her?"

"Who told you I did that?"

"Nobody didn't tell me. I just found out. I loved grandmother too.  She told me all the stories she knew."

"Did she ever tell you a story about a black dog?"

"No. Did she know one?"

"Yes, she knew it,"

"Perhaps she had forgotten it?"

"No, she remembered it."

"Tell it to me."

"Not till you are eighteen."

"But will you not be dead when I am eighteen? When you go to  Heaven, will you see grandmother?"

"Yes."

"Will she be glad to see you?"

My little maid's eighteenth birthday has come, and I am still in  Thrums, which I love, though it is beautiful to none, perhaps,  save to the very done, who lean on their staves and look long at  it, having nothing else to do till they die. I have lived to  rejoice in the happiness of Gavin and Babbie: and if at times I  have suddenly had to turn away my head after looking upon them in  their home surrounded by their children, it was but a moment's  envy that I could not help. Margaret never knew of the dominie in  the glen. They wanted to tell her of me, but I would not have it.  She has been long gone from this world; but sweet memories of her  still grow, like honeysuckle, up the white walls of the manse,  smiling in at the parlor window and beckoning from the door, and  for some filling all the air with fragrance. It was not she who  raised the barrier between her and me, but God Himself; and to  those who maintain otherwise, I say they do not understand the  purity of a woman's soul. During the years she was lost to me her  face ever came between me and ungenerous thoughts; and now I can  say, all that is carnal in me is my own, and all that is good I  got from her. Only one bitterness remains. When I found Gavin in  the rain, when I was fighting my way through the flood, when I saw  how the hearts of the people were turned against him--above all,  when I found Whamond in the manse--I cried to God, making promises  to Him, if He would spare the lad for Margaret's sake, and He  spared him; but these promises I have not kept.

THE END

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