One horse could not do the work of this man, but we liked best to see him on his old white mare, who died the week after her master, and the passing of the two did our hearts good.  It was not that he rode beautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying with his arms, stooping till he seemed to be speaking into Jess’s ears, and rising in the saddle beyond all necessity.  But he could ride faster, stay longer in the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees than any one I ever met, and it was all for mercy’s sake.  When the reapers in harvest-time saw a figure whirling past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot of Glen Urtach, gathered round the fire on a winter’s night, heard the rattle of a horse’s hoofs on the road, or the shepherds, out after the sheep, traced a black speck moving across the snow to the upper glen, they knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious of it, wished him God-speed.

Before and behind his saddle were strapped the instruments and medicines the doctor might want, for he never knew what was before him.  There were no specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do everything as best he could, and as quickly.  He was chest doctor, and doctor for every other organ as well; he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and aurist; he was dentist and chloroformist, besides being chemist and druggist.  It was often told how he was far up Glen Urtach when the feeders of the threshing-mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only stopped to change horses at his house, and galloped all the way to Burnbrae, and flung himself off his horse, and amputated the arm, and saved the lad’s life.

“You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an hour,” said Jamie Soutar, who had been at the threshing, “an’ a’ ’ll never forget the puir lad lyin’ as white as deith on the floor o’ the loft, wi’ his head on a sheaf, and Burnbrae haudin’ the bandage ticht an’ prayin’ a’ the while, and the mither greetin’ in the corner.

“‘Will he never come?’ she cries, an’ a’ heard the soond o’ the horse’s feet on the road a mile awa’ in the frosty air.

“‘The Lord be praised!’ said Burnbrae, and a’ slipped doon the ladder as the doctor came skelpin’ intae the close, the foam fleein’ frae his horse’s mooth.

“‘Whar is he?’ wes a’ that passed his lips, an’ in five meenuts he hed him on the feedin’ board, and wes at his wark—­sic wark, neeburs! but he did it weel.  An’ ae thing a’ thocht rael thochtfu’ o’ him:  he first sent aff the laddie’s mither tae get a bed ready.

“’Noo that’s feenished, and his constitution ‘ill dae the rest,’ and he carried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him in his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin’, and then says he, ‘Burnbrae, yir a gey lad never tae say, “Collie, will ye lick?” for a’ hevna tasted meat for saxteen hoors.’

“It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the verra look o’ him wes victory.”