“Truth’s nae slander,” and Kildrummie watched Carmichael with relish; “a’ thocht ye wud hae got a taste o’ her in the Glen.  Didna a’ heer frae Piggie Walker that ye ca’d her Jezebel frae yir ain pulpit, an’ that ma lady whuppit oot o’ the kirk in the middle o’ the sermon?”

“I did nothing of the kind, and Walker is a . . .”

“Piggie’s no very particular at a time,” admitted Kildrummie; “maybe it’s a makup the story aboot Miss Carnegie an’ yirsel’.

“Accordin’ tae the wratch,” for Carmichael would deign no reply, “she wes threatenin’ tae mak’ a fule o’ the Free Kirk minister o’ Drumtochty juist for practice, but a’ said, ’Na, na, Piggie, Maister Carmichael is ower quiet and sensible a lad.  He kens as weel as onybody that a Carnegie wud never dae for a minister’s wife.  Gin ye said a Bailie’s dochter frae Muirtown ‘at hes some money comin’ tae her and kens the principles o’ the Free Kirk.’

“Noo a’ can speak frae experience, having been terrible fortunate wi’ a’ ma wives. . . .  Ye’ll come up tae tea; we killed a pig yesterday, and . . .  Weel, weel, a wilfu’ man maun hae his wy”; and Carmichael, as he made his way up the hill, felt that the hand of Providence was heavy upon him, and that any highmindedness was being severely chastened.

Two days Carmichael tramped the moors, returning each evening wet, weary, hungry, to sleep ten hours without turning, and on the morning of the third day he came down in such heart that Sarah wondered whether he could have received a letter by special messenger; and he congratulated himself, as he walked round his garden, that he had overcome by sheer will power the first real infatuation of his life.  He was so lifted above all sentiment as to review his temporary folly from the bare, serene heights of common sense.  Miss Carnegie was certainly not an heiress, and she was a young woman of very decided character, but her blood was better than the Hays’, and she was . . . attractive—­yes, attractive.  Most likely she was engaged to Lord Hay, or if he did not please her—­she was . . . whimsical and . . . self-willed—­there was Lord Invermays’ son.  Fancy Kate . . .  Miss Carnegie in a Free Kirk manse—­Kildrummie was a very . . . homely old man, but he touched the point there—­receiving Doctor Dowbiggin with becoming ceremony and hearing him on the payment of probationers, or taking tea at Kildrummie Manse—­where he had, however, feasted royally many a time after the Presbytery, but. . . .  This daughter of a Jacobite house, and brought up amid the romance of war, settling down in the narrowest circle of Scottish life—­as soon imagine an eagle domesticated among barn-door poultry.  This image amused Carmichael so much that he could have laughed aloud, but . . . the village might have heard him.  He only stretched himself like one awaking, and felt so strong that he resolved to drop in on Janet Macpherson, Kate’s old retainer—­to see how it fared with the old woman and . . . to have Miss Carnegie’s engagement confirmed.  The Carnegies might return any day from the South, and it would be well that he should know how to meet them.