"Mebbe so," said the friendly stranger, "mair nor likely he's deid noo; one o' thae red Indians micht hae killed him, like eneuch."
"Yes, or perhaps a bear," Mr. Blake replied gravely.
There was a pause. A bell was ringing, its notes floating in clear and sweet upon them.
"What bell is that?" inquired Mr. Blake.
"That's oor bell i' the parish kirk; there's no ither ane."
"What is it ringing for? To-day is Thursday," asked Mr. Blake.
"Aye," responded the other, "this is the fast day. Sabbath's the sacrament, ye ken, and they're maist awfu' strict aboot the fast day. They wadna work that day, nae mair than on the Sabbath. They willna even whustle. Ae mornin' I met Davie Drewry, an' 'twas the fast day. Noo, of course, it was juist an or'nary day in Dr. Cameron's parish across the burn—the burn divides the twa, ye ken. Weel, Davie was a lad for whustlin'—he cudna leeve withoot whustlin'—but he was gey religious too. Weel, I met Davie that mornin', walkin' awfu' fast, maist rinnin'—an' his face was red.
"'Whaur micht ye be gaun, Davie?' says I, 'naebody ailin'?'
"'Na, na,' says Davie, 'but it's the fast day, an' I canna stand it ony longer. I'm gaun ower the burn to hae a whustle.' Wasna that fair redeek'lus!"
"Quite ingenious," answered Mr. Blake. "You go to that church, I suppose?"