It was evident to the laird that the new life was very distasteful to his heir; it was evident to the dominie that it was developing the worst sides of Colin’s character.  Something of this he pointed out to Helen one morning.  Helen and he had lately become great friends, indeed, they were co-workers together in all the new labors which the dominie’s conscience had set him.  The laird had been too busy and anxious about other matters to interfere as yet with this alliance, but he promised himself he would do so very soon.  Helen Crawford was not going to nurse sick babies and sew for all the old women in the clachan much longer.  And the night-school!  This was particularly offensive to him.  Some of the new men had gone there, and Crawford was sure he was in some way defrauded by it.  He thought it impossible to work in the day and study an hour at night.  In some way he suffered by it.

“If they werna in the schoolroom they would be in the Change House,” Tallisker had argued.

But the laird thought in his heart that the whiskey would be more to his advantage than the books.  Yet he did not like to say so; there was something in the dominie’s face which restrained him.  He had opened the subject in that blustering way which always hides the white feather somewhere beneath it, and Tallisker had answered with a solemn severity,

“Crawford, it seems to be your wark to mak money; it is mine to save souls.  Our roads are sae far apart we arena likely to run against each other, if we dinna try to.”

“But I don’t like the way you are doing your wark; that is all, dominie.”

“Mammon never did like God’s ways.  There is a vera old disagreement between them.  A man has a right to consider his ain welfare, Crawford, but it shouldna be mair than the twa tables o’ the law to him.”

Now Tallisker was one of those ministers who bear their great commission in their faces.  There was something almost imperial about the man when he took his stand by the humblest altar of his duty.  Crawford had intended at this very time to speak positively on the subject of his own workers to Tallisker.  But when he looked at the dark face, set and solemn and full of an irresistible authority, he was compelled to keep silence.  A dim fear that Tallisker would say something to him which would make him uncomfortable crept into his heart.  It was better that both the dominie and conscience should be quiet at present.

Still he could not refrain from saying,

“You hae set yoursel’ a task you’ll ne’er win over, dominie.  You could as easy mak Ben-Cruchan cross the valley and sit down by Ben-Appin as mak Gael and Lowlander call each other brothers.”

“We are told, Crawford, that mountains may be moved by faith; why not, then, by love?  I am a servant o’ God.  I dinna think it any presumption to expect impossibilities.”