'Ay! an' I'm thinkin' it's that auld carline, Jenny Geddes, 'at's raised a' the fash! My granny gaed to hear Mester Dowlas whan he preached among the whins down by the shore, an' oh, but he was bonny! An' a graand screed o' doctrine he gae us. For twa hale hours he preached an' expundet an' never drew breath, for a the wind was skirlin', an' the renn whiles skelpin' like wild. An' I'm thinkin' my granny's gotten her death o't a'. But oh! an' he was graand on Jenny Geddes! an' hoo she was a mither in Israel, an' hoo she up wi' the creepie an' heaved it at the Erastian's heid. An' my granny was juist fairly ta'en wi't a', an' she vooed she beut to be a mither in Israel tae, an' whan she gaed hame she out wi' the auld hugger 'at she keeps the bawbees in, aneath the hearth-stane, for to buy a creepie o' her ain,--she thocht a new ane wad be best for the Lord's wark,--an' she coupet the chair whaur hung her grave claes, 'at she airs fornent the fire ilka Saturday at e'en, an' out there cam a lowe, an' scorched a hole i' the windin' sheet, an' noo puir body we'll hae to hap her in her muckle tartan plaid. An' aiblins she'll be a' the warmer'e'y moulds for that. But, however, she says the sheet was weel waur'd, for the guid cause. An' syne she took til her bed, wi' a sair host, an' sma' winder, for there was a weet dub whaur she had been sittin' amang the whins. An' noo the host's settled on her that sair, she whiles canna draw her breath. Sae she says she maun let the creepie birlin' slide, but she beut to testifee afore some godly minister or she gangs hence. An' I'm fear'd, sir, ye maun hurry, for she's rael far through.'

Joseph listened with a groan of solemn approval. 'Oh, minister, but it's a high preev'lidge! an' I'm no grudgin' the weet an' the gutters comin' ower to fesh ye, forby the drap parrich growin' cauld at hame!' 'Roderick! It is impossible for you to go. Ten miles! and such a night! And then, think of kind Mr. Watson; how hurt he will be!'

Joseph sighed, and muttered under his breath about sojourners in Meshech, but Mr. Brown took no notice, and replied to his sister,--

'The coach will pass going down at seven to-morrow morning.'

'I'm fear'd, sir, ye'll be ower late by than. She'll maybe no live or mornin.' An' she canna thole waitin', my granny.'

'But we have no gig, you must remember, and I know the inn gig is away, so it cannot be helped,' replied Mary.

'I'm thinkin' sir,' suggested Joseph, 'Patey Soutar wad be wullen' to gie us his pownie, seein' its you. It's a sore nicht for the puir beast, but than there's the gude cause, an' ye'll no be forgettin' the ruch wather e'y pay, sir. Patey's pownie's a canny baste, an' sure-fittet e'y dark. Mony's the time he's brocht Patey safe hame, an' him wi' a drappie in's heid 'at garred him see no' that strecht afore him.'

'Yes,' returned the minister, with a patient shrug; 'and he won't run away with me, that's certain.' It was manifest he would have to go, reason or no reason. To reduce the question to one of common sense would have raised too many questions hard or inconvenient to answer; and as to his own comfort, he had long learned to yield that. In a popular movement the people who are wont to be led will sometimes drive by the mere force already communicated to their inertia, and the minister, accustomed to lead, will sometimes find himself pushed or driven by the very impulse he has himself originated.

Mary's remonstrances were in vain. She could only do her best towards arming her brother against the storm, and seeing that his mackintosh and plaid were securely wrapped around him. Considerate, as usual, for every one but himself, the minister offered the young fisherman shelter for the night, to await the morning coach, but that was declined with a 'Na na, sir! Shanks' naig diz fine for the like o' me. An' surely gin ye can thole the rough nicht, I'se do weel enough.'

Up the steep hill road that runs eastward from Glen Effick and gradually gains the upland moor dividing it from the sea, the two wayfarers floundered in the darkness. The water-courses being already choked with their hurrying floods, the road became the natural vent for the superfluous deluge, and had changed into a roaring torrent, carrying down stones and gravel in its course, and rendering travel against the stream both difficult and dangerous. The pony had full opportunity to prove his character for sagacity and sure-footedness, and he vindicated it triumphantly, for he kept on his way despite of all impediments, while poor Sandie, the fisher lad, found his footing give way and himself rolled over among the rattling stones more than once, when he would pick himself up again with a 'Hech sirse! but my hirdies are sair forfuchan.'