“And what have you to do with Blackie?” asked Grace, glancing across to the hillocks, where some cattle grazed inoffensively, in search of the formidable animal.

“I herd him—­I’m Gowrie’s herd-laddie.  They’re all terrible easy-managed beasts but him, and he’s full o’ ill tricks.  He can’t bear woman-folks,” added the boy, with a slight mischievous twinkle in his eye; for he felt more at his ease now, having assured himself that Blackie was much too intent on some sweet blades of grass to give any trouble at that moment.

“Gowrie! that’s the old farm down in the hollow there, isn’t it?  And how long have you been herding?” asked Grace, who still stood on the stepping-stones, and pursued the conversation with the noisy little stream babbling round her.

“I was hired to Gowrie two year come Marti’mas, and afore that I herded some sheep on the hill yonder.  We had a hut all to oursels.  I slept wi’ them a’ night, and liked them terrible weel, a hantle better than the cattle,” and his eye wandered regretfully to a bleak mountain slope, which had evidently pleasant associations for the little herd-boy.

“Did you ever go to school?” asked Grace, anxious to introduce her subject, for she thought she would like this boy for a scholar.

“Ay, did I once, when I was a wee laddie.  I was in the ‘Third Primer,’ and could read pretty big words,” and he fumbled in his jacket-pocket for the collection of dog-eared leaves which represented his store of learning.

“Of course you can’t go to school now on week days, when you have to watch the cows; but perhaps you go to Sunday-school?” Grace asked; and will it make her desire to do good appear very narrow and small, if it must be confessed that she hoped to hear that he did not go to any?  Her mind was soon set at rest, however, for he presently replied: 

“The school at the kirk, ye mean?  No; granny’s dreadful deaf, and we don’t go to the kirk.  I belong to Gowrie a’ the week, but I’m granny’s on Sabbath; there’s aye a deal to do, brakin’ sticks and mendin’ up things, ye see.”

“And you really don’t go to a Sunday-school?” exclaimed Grace, hardly able to restrain her satisfaction at this piece of information.  “But, by-the-by, I have never asked your name.  I should like to hear it, because I hope we are going to be friends.”

“They call me Geordie Baxter,” he replied, as he ran to check the wanderings of one of the cows, while Grace stood watching him, as she pondered how she might best frame an invitation asking him to be her scholar.  He seemed so manly and independent, though he was so young; and, somehow, it was all so different from how she had planned her finding of scholars.  She had been looking for a cottage where the tattered children might be crawling about the doorstep, making mudpies and quarrelling with each other; and then she thought she would knock at the door, after she had spoken to them for a little, and