Tommy’s mother now heard these words for the first time, Aaron having cut them on the stone after she left Thrums, and her head sank at each line, as if someone had struck four blows at her.

The stone was no longer at the Cuttle Well.  As the easiest way of obliterating the words, the minister had ordered it to be broken, and of the pieces another mason had made stands for watches, one of which was now in Thrums Street.

“Aaron Latta ain’t a mason now,” Tommy rattled on:  “he is a warper, because he can warp in his own house without looking on mankind or speaking to mankind.  Auld Petey said he minded the day when Aaron Latta was a merry loon, and then Andrew McVittie said, ’God behears, to think that Aaron Latta was ever a merry man!’ and Baker Lumsden said, ’Curse her!’”

His mother shrank in her chair, but said nothing, and Tommy explained:  “It was Jean Myles he was cursing; did you ken her, mother? she ruined Aaron Latta’s life.”

“Ay, and wha ruined Jean Myles’s life?” his mother cried passionately.

Tommy did not know, but he thought that young Petey might know, for young Petey had said:  “If I had been Jean Myles I would have spat in Aaron’s face rather than marry him.”

Mrs. Sandys seemed pleased to hear this.

“They wouldna tell me what it were she did,” Tommy went on; “they said it was ower ugly a story, but she were a bad one, for they stoned her out of Thrums.  I dinna know where she is now, but she were stoned out of Thrums!”

“No alane?”

“There was a man with her, and his name was—­it was—­”

His mother clasped her hands nervously while Tommy tried to remember the name.  “His name was Magerful Tam,” he said at length.

“Ay,” said his mother, knitting her teeth, “that was his name.”

“I dinna mind any more,” Tommy concluded.  “Yes, I mind they aye called Aaron Latta ‘Poor Aaron Latta.’”

“Did they?  I warrant, though, there wasna one as said ’Poor Jean Myles’?”

She began the question in a hard voice, but as she said “Poor Jean Myles” something caught in her throat, and she sobbed, painful dry sobs.

“How could they pity her when she were such a bad one?” Tommy answered briskly.

“Is there none to pity bad ones?” said his sorrowful mother.

Elspeth plucked her by the skirt.  “There’s God, ain’t there?” she said, inquiringly, and getting no answer she flopped upon her knees, to say a babyish prayer that would sound comic to anybody except to Him to whom it was addressed.

“You ain’t praying for a woman as was a disgrace to Thrums!” Tommy cried, jealously, and he was about to raise her by force, when his mother stayed his hand.

“Let her alane,” she said, with a twitching mouth and filmy eyes.  “Let her alane.  Let my bairn pray for Jean Myles.”

CHAPTER VII

COMIC OVERTURE TO A TRAGEDY