“The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw’s worth—­then the figures are bound to come right, I should say.”

It was an old trouble that Archie complained about.  He was MacAllister’s steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest condition.

When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David was standing in the door, smoking.  David liked his guest less in the morning than he had done at night.

“Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir,” said David rather grimly.

Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he had never tasted porridge before.

“More’s the pity, my lad.  Maybe if you had been brought up on decent oatmeal you would hae thankit God for your food;” for Mr. Semple’s omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased the old man.

The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out.  There was a fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling mists—­wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above.  David saw something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion.  He looked steadily into Mr. Semple’s pale, blue eyes, and said: 

“Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?”

“Sir!”

There was a moment’s angry silence.  Suddenly David raised his hand, shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills.  Mr. Semple followed this movement with great interest.

“What are you looking at, Mr. Scott?  Oh!  I see.  Two men coming up this way.  Do you know who they are?”

“They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be policemen—­I dinna ken them mysel’.”

“Mr. Scott!  For God’s sake, Mr. Scott!  Don’t give me up, and I will tell you the whole truth.”

“I thought so!” said David, sternly.  “Well, come up the hills wi’ me; yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are.”

There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems.

The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited until his companion had regained his breath, said: 

“You’ll fare best wi’ me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as may be; I dinna like fine speeches.”

“Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin’s bookkeeper and cashier.  He’s a tea dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow.  I’m short in my cash, and he’s a hard man, so I run away.”

“Sortie, lad!  Your cash dinna gang wrang o’ itself.  If you werna ashamed to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it.  Begin at the beginning.”