in a’ that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi’ them, for they were a’ like to have smoored in the Deil’s Hag between this and Kilmackerlie.  They were books o’ divinity, to be sure, or so they ca’d them; but the serious were o’ opinion there was little service for sae mony, when the hail o’ God’s Word would gang in the neuk of a plaid.  Then he wad sit half the day and half the nicht forby, which was scant decent—­writin’, nae less; and first they were feard he wad read his sermons; and syne it proved he was writin’ a book himsel’, which was surely no fittin’ for ane of his years an’ sma’ experience.

Onyway, it behooved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners; and he was recommended to an auld limmer,—­Janet M’Clour, they ca’d her,—­and sae far left to himsel’ as to be ower-persuaded.  There was mony advised him to the contrar’, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba’weary.  Lang or that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit for maybe thretty year; and bairns had seen her mumblin’ to hersel’ up on Key’s Loan in the gloamin’, whilk was an unco time an’ place for a God-fearin’ woman.  Howsoever, it was the laird himsel’ that had first tauld the minister o’ Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane a far gate to pleesure the laird.  When folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the deil, it was a’ superstition by his way of it; and’ when they cast up the Bible to him, an’ the witch of Endor, he wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir days were a’ gane by, and the deil was mercifully restrained.

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M’Clour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi’ her an’ him thegether; and some o’ the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her door-cheeks and chairge her wi’ a’ that was kent again’ her, frae the sodger’s bairn to John Tamson’s twa kye.  She was nae great speaker; folk usually let her gang her ain gait, an’ she let them gang theirs, wi’ neither fair guid-e’en nor fair guid-day; but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave the miller.  Up she got, an’ there wasnae an auld story in Ba’weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae say ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu’d her doun the clachan to the water o’ Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum or droun.  The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin’ Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a guid wife bure the mark of her neist day an’ mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest o’ the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister.

“Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “I charge you in the Lord’s name to let her go.”

Janet ran to him—­she was fair wud wi’ terror—­an’ clang to him, an’ prayed him, for Christ’s sake, save her frae the cummers; an’ they, for their pairt, tauld him a’ that was kent, and maybe mair.