till even prodigals that had strayed over to the neighbourhood of the Aberdeen express were restored to the extemporized fold in the minister’s top-coat pockets.  Carmichael had knelt on that very platform six months or so before, but then he laboured in the service of two most agreeable dogs and under the approving eyes of Miss Carnegie; that was a different experience from hunting after single potatoes on all fours among the feet of unsympathetic passengers, and being prodded to duty by the umbrella of an obese Free Kirk minister.  As a reward for this service of the aged, he was obliged to travel to Kildrummie with his neighbour—­in whom for the native humour that was in him he had often rejoiced, but whose company was not congenial that day—­and Kildrummie laid himself out for a pleasant talk.  After the roots had been secured and their pedigree stated Kildrummie fell back on the proceedings of Presbytery, expressing much admiration for the guidance of Doctor Dowbiggin and denouncing Saunderson as “fair dottle,” in proof of which judgment Kildrummie adduced the fact that the Rabbi had allowed a very happily situated pig-sty at the Manse of Kilbogie to sink into ruin.  Kildrummie, still in search of agreeable themes to pass the time, also mentioned a pleasant tale he had gathered at the seed shop.

[Illustration:  He watched the dispersion of his potatoes with dismay]

“Yir neebur upbye, the General’s dochter, is cairryin’ on an awfu’ rig the noo at the Castle”—­Kildrummie fell into dialect in private life, often with much richness—­“an’ the sough (noise) o’ her ongaeins hes come the length o’ Muirtown.  The castle is foo’ o’ men—­tae say naethin’ o’ weemin; but it’s little she hes tae dae wi’ them or them wi’ her—­officers frae Edinburgh an’ writin’ men frae London, as weel as half a dozen coonty birkies.”

“Well?” said Carmichael, despising himself for his curiosity.

“She hes a wy, there’s nae doot o’ that, an’ gin the trimmie hesna turned the heads o’ half the men in the Castle, till they say she hes the pick of twa lords, five honourables, and a poet.  But the lassie kens what’s what; it’s Lord Hay she’s settin’ her cap for, an’ as sure as ye’re sittin’ there, Drum, she’ll hae him.

“Ma word”—­and Kildrummie pursued his way—­“it’ll be a match, the dochter o’ a puir Hielant laird, wi’ naethin’ but his half pay and a few pounds frae a fairm or twa.  She’s a clever ane; French songs, dancin’, shootin’, ridin’, actin’, there’s nae deevilry that’s beyond her.  They say upbye that she’s been a bonnie handfu’ tae her father—­General though he be—­an’ a’ peety her man.”

“They say a lot of . . . lies, and I don’t see what call a minister has to slander . . .”; and then Carmichael saw the folly of quarrelling with a veteran gossip over a young woman that would have nothing to say to him.  What two Free Kirk ministers or their people thought of her would never affect Miss Carnegie.