Tommy rose in surprise, as did several of the others.

“Was it really you?” Ailie cried.  “She says it was you!”

“I don’t understand, Mrs. McLean,” he answered; “I have done nothing.”

“But she says—­and she is at the door!”

All eyes turned on the door so longingly that it opened under their pressure, and a boy who had been at the keyhole stumbled forward.

“That’s him!” he announced, pointing a stern finger at Mr. Sandys.

“But he says he did not do it,” Ailie said.

“He’s a liar,” said the boy.  His manner was that of the police, and it had come so sharply upon Tommy that he looked not unlike a detected criminal.

Most of them thought he was being accused of something vile, and the Dominie demanded, with a light heart, “Who is the woman?” while Mr. James had a pleasant feeling that the ladies should be requested to retire.  But just then the woman came in, and she was much older than they had expected.

“That’s him, granny,” the boy said, still severely; “that’s the man as saved my life at the Slugs.”  And then, when the truth was dawning on them all, and there were exclamations of wonder, a pretty scene suddenly presented itself, for the old lady, who had entered with the timidest courtesy, slipped down on her knees before Tommy and kissed his hand.  That young rascal of a boy was all she had.

They were all moved by her simplicity, but none quite so much as Tommy.  He gulped with genuine emotion, and saw her through a maze of beautiful thoughts that delayed all sense of triumph and even made him forget, for a little while, to wonder what Grizel was thinking of him now.  As the old lady poured out her thanks tremblingly, he was excitedly planning her future.  He was a poor man, but she was to be brought by him into Thrums to a little cottage overgrown with roses.  No more hard work for these dear old hands.  She could sell scones, perhaps.  She should have a cow.  He would send the boy to college and make a minister of him; she should yet hear her grandson preach in the church to which as a boy—­

But here the old lady somewhat imperilled the picture by rising actively and dumping upon the table the contents of the bag—­a fowl for Tommy.

She was as poor an old lady as ever put a halfpenny into the church plate on Sundays; but that she should present a hen to the preserver of her grandson, her mind had been made up from the moment she had reason to think she could find him, and it was to be the finest hen in all the country round.  She was an old lady of infinite spirit, and daily, dragging the boy with her lest he again went a-fishing, she trudged to farms near and far to examine and feel their hens.  She was a brittle old lady who creaked as she walked, and cracked like a whin-pod in the heat, but she did her dozen miles or more a day, and passed all the fowls in review, and could not be deceived by the craftiest of farmers’ wives; and in the tail of the day she became possessor, and did herself thraw the neck of the stoutest and toughest hen that ever entered a linen bag head foremost.  By this time the boy had given way in the legs, and hence the railway journey, its cost defrayed by admiring friends.