“Nether Dullarg.

“DEAR MR. M’QUHIRR,—­I made strict inquiry subsequent to my return from your hospitable dwelling last evening regarding the slight accident which happened to my son, Archibald, whilst I was engaged in suitable converse with your like-minded partner.  I am of opinion that there is no necessity for proceeding to extreme measures in the case of your son, Alexander—­as in my first natural indignation, I urged somewhat strongly upon your good wife.  It may not ultimately be for the worse, that the lads were allowed to settle their own differences without the intervention of their parents.  I may say, in conclusion, that the application of a portion of uncooked beef to the protuberance has considerably reduced the swelling upon my son’s nose during the night.  I intend (D.V.) to resume the visitation of my congregation on Thursday next, unaccompanied either by my own son or yours.—­Believe me, dear sir, to remain your most obedient servant,

     July 3rd.

     “JOHN MARCHBANKS.”

Now, Mr. Marchbanks is not my own minister, but there is not a better respected man in the countryside, nor one whom I would less allow any one belonging to me to make light of.  So it behoved me to make inquiry.  Of the letter itself I could make neither head nor tail; but two things were clear—­that that loon of a boy, my son Alec, was in it, and also that his mother was “accessory after the fact,” as the Kirkcudbright lawyers say.  In the latter case it was necessary to act with circumspection.  In the other case I should probably have acted instantly with a suitable hazel rod.

I went into the house.  “Where’s Alec?” I asked, maybe a kenning sharper than ordinary.

“What may ye be wantin’ wi’ Alec?” said my wife, with a sting in her accent which showed that she was deep in the ploy, whatever it had been.  It now came to my mind that I had not seen Alec since the day before, when I sent him out to play with the minister’s son, till Maister Marchbanks had peace to give us his crack before I went out to the hill sheep.

So I mentioned to Mrs. M’Quhirr that I had a letter from the minister about the boy.  “Let us hear it,” says she.  So I read the letter word for word.

“What does he mean by a’ that screed?” she asked.  “It’s like a bit o’ a sermon.”

Now, my wife takes the general good out of a sermon, but she does not always trouble to translate pulpit language into plain talk.

“He means that there’s six o’ yin an’ half a dizzen o’ the ither,” I explained, to smooth her down.

“Na, they’re no’ that,” said Mrs. M’Quhirr; “my laddie may be steerin’, I’m no’ denyin’; but he’s no’ to be named in the same day as that misleered hound, the minister’s loon!”

It was evidently more than ever necessary to proceed with circumspection.

“At any rate, let us hear what the laddie has to say for himsel’.  Where is he?” I said.