Now, it came to pass, less than three weeks after the examination of my bit school at the Rowantree, that our own minister, Mr. Wakerife, took a chill after heating himself at the hay, and died.  He was a canny body, and sound on the doctrine, but without unction or the fervour of the Spirit blowing upon him in the pulpit.  Still, he was sound, and in a minister that is aye the main thing.

Now, so great was the regardlessness of the parish, that the honest man was not cold in his coffin before two-three of the farmers with whom the members of the Presbytery were wont to stay when they came to examine, laid their heads together that they might make the parish of Rowantree even as Corseglass, and Deadthraws, and other Valleys of Dry Bones about us.

“There shall be no more fanatics in Rowantree!” said they.

And they had half a gallon over the head of it, which, being John Grieve’s best, they might have partaken of in a better cause.

Now, the worst of them was Bauldy Todd of Todston, the father of my James.  It was a great thing, as I have often been told, to hear James and his father at it.  James was a quiet and loutish loon so long as he was let alone, and he went about his duties pondering and revolving mighty things in his mind.  But when you chanced to start him on the fundamentals, then the Lord give you skill of your weapon, for it was no slight or unskilled dialectician who did you the honour to cross swords with you.

But Bauldy Todd, being a hot, contentious man, could not let his son alone.  In the stable and out in the hayfield he was ever on his back, though Jamie was never the lad to cross him or to begin an argument.  But his father would rage and try to shout him down—­a vain thing with Jamie.  For the lad, being well learned in the Scriptures, had the more time to bethink himself while the “goldering” of his father was heard as far as the high Crownrigs.  And even as Bauldy paused for breath, James would slip a text under his father’s guard, which let the wind out of him like a bladder that is transfixed on a thorn-bush.  Then there remained nothing for Bauldy but to run at Jamie to lay on him with a staff—­an argument which, taking to his heels, Jamie as easily avoided.

It was my own Jamie who brought me word of the ill-contrived ploy that was in the wind.  He told me that his father and Mickle Andrew of Ingliston and the rest of that clan were for starting to see the Lady Lochwinnoch, the patron of the parish, to make interest on behalf of Mr. Calmsough’s nephew, as cold and lifeless a moral preacher as was ever put out of the Edinburgh College, which is saying no little, as all will admit.