They reached the road in twenty minutes, and went straight away to the clachan to report themselves at the manse, or minister’s house.
It wasn’t much of a manse, only an ordinary-looking, blue-slated house of two stories, but it had a nice lawn in front and gardens round it, where ash trees, limes, planes, and elms grew almost in too great abundance. The windows were large, and one was a French one, and opened under a verandah on to the lawn. This was the Rev. David Grant’s study.
Before they came round the hedgerow, both boys stopped, dipped their handkerchiefs in the running brook, and polished their faces; then they warned Shot to be on his best behaviour, and looking as sedate and solemn as they could, they opened the gate, and made their way to the hall door. And Shot tried to look as old as he could, and followed behind with his nose pretty near the ground, and his tail almost between his heels.
But Mr Grant himself saw them, opened the casement window, and cried,—
“Come this way, boys.”
Mr Grant was the clergyman of the village. The living was a poor one, and as he had seven grown-up daughters, he was obliged to turn sheep farmer. It was his sheep that Kenneth herded, and that his father had herded before him, after “the bad years” had ruined the poor man.
“Miss Grant will soon be here,” he said. “And how have you left the sheep, Kenneth?”
“They are all nicely, thank you, sir,” replied Kenneth.
“All healthy and thriving, I hope?”