pair, they seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great deal to consider in his mind.  It was possible they were all fallen in error about Mr. Haddo, he reflected—­having seen him so tender with Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a temptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the matter.  But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on instead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm.  There, in a hollow place by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than himself.  The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange dogs, looking at each other queerly.

‘It’s ill weather on the hills,’ said the stranger, giving the watchword.

‘For a season,’ said Francie, ‘but the Lord will appear.’

‘Richt,’ said the barefoot boy; ‘wha’re ye frae?’

‘The Leddy Montroymont,’ says Francie.

‘Ha’e, then!’ says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other again.  ‘It’s unco het,’ said the boy.

‘Dooms het,’ says Francie.

‘What do they ca’ ye?’ says the other.

‘Francie,’ says he.  ‘I’m young Montroymont.  They ca’ me Heathercat.’

‘I’m Jock Crozer,’ said the boy.  And there was another pause, while each rolled a stone under his foot.

‘Cast your jaiket and I’ll fecht ye for a bawbee,’ cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket.

‘Na, I’ve nae time the now,’ said Francie, with a sharp thrill of alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier boy.

‘Ye’re feared.  Heathercat indeed!’ said Crozer, for among this infantile army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was resented by his rivals.  And with that they separated.

On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection of this untoward incident.  The challenge had been fairly offered and basely refused:  the tale would be carried all over the country, and the lustre of the name of Heathercat be dimmed.  But the scene between Curate Haddo and Janet M’Clour had also given him much to think of:  and he was still puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting with her back to him, minding her cattle!  He was always a great child for secret, stealthy ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the same was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her hearing.

‘Jennet,’ says he.

‘Keep me,’ cries Janet, springing up.  ’O, it’s you, Maister Francie!  Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.’

‘Ay, it’s me,’ said Francie.  ’I’ve been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and the curate a while back—­’