Kit Kennedy made for the front door, direct from the foot of the ladder.  His aunt raised herself on one elbow in bed, to assure herself that he did not go into the kitchen.  She heard the click of the bolt shot back, and the stir of the dogs as Tweed and Tyke rose from the fireside to follow him.  There was still a little red gleaming between the bars, and Kit would have liked to go in and warm his toes on the hearthstone.  But he knew that his aunt was listening.  He was going thirteen, and big for his age, so he wasted no pity on himself, but opened the door and went out.  Self-pity is bad at any time.  It is fatal at thirteen.

At the door one of the dogs stopped, sniffed the keen frosty air, turned quietly, and went back to the hearthstone.  That was Tweed.  But Tyke was out rolling in the snow when Kit Kennedy shut the door.

Then his aunt went to sleep.  She knew that Kit Kennedy did his work, and that there would be no cause to complain.  But she meant to complain all the same.  He was a lazy, deceitful hound, an encumbrance, and an interloper among her bairns.

Kit slapped his long arms against his sides.  He stood beneath his aunt’s window, and crowed so like a cock that Mistress Mac Walter jumped out of her bed.

“Save us!” she said.  “What’s that beast doin’ there at this time in the mornin’?”

She got out of bed to look; but she could see nothing, certainly not Kit.  But Kit saw her, as she stood shivering at the window in her night-gear.  Kit hoped that her legs were cold.  This was his revenge.  He was a revengeful boy.

As for himself, he was as warm as toast.  The stars tingled above with frost.  The moon lay over on her back and yawned still more ungracefully.  She seemed more tired than ever.

Kit had an idea.  He stopped and cried up at her—­

“Get up, ye lazy guid-for-naething!  I’ll come wi’ a stick to ye!”

But the moon did not come down.  On the contrary, she made no sign.  Kit laughed.  He had to stop in the snow to do it.  The imitation of his aunt pleased him.  He fancied himself climbing up a rung-ladder to the moon, with a broomstick in his hand.  He would start that old moon, if he fell down and broke his neck.  Kit was hungry now.  It was a long time since supper.  Porridge is, no doubt, good feeding; but it vanishes away like the morning cloud, and leaves behind it only an aching void.  Kit felt the void, but he could not help it.  Instead, however, of dwelling upon it, his mind was full of queer thoughts and funny imaginings.  It is a strange thing that the thought of rattling on the ribs of a lazy, sleepy moon with a besom-shank pleased him as much as a plate of porridge and as much milk as he could sup to it.  But that was the fact.

Kit went next into the stable to get a lantern.  The horses were moving about restlessly, but Kit had nothing to do with them.  He went in only to get a lantern.  It was on the great wooden corn-crib in the corner.  Kit lighted it, and pulled down his cap over his ears.