Saunders uprose in wrath, for the soap was stinging furiously in the cut, and expostulated with Birsie with a handful of reins which he lifted off the lid of the corn-chest.

“Ye ill-natured, thrawn, upsettin’ blastie, ye donnart auld deevil!” he cried.

“Alexander Mowdiewort, gin ye desire to use minced oaths and braid oaths indiscriminately, ye shall not use them in my stable.  Though ye be but a mere Erastian and uncertain in yer kirk membership, ye are at least an occasional hearer, whilk is better than naething, at the kirk o’ the Marrow; and what is more to the point, ye are my own hired servant, and I desire that ye cease from makin’ use o’ any such expressions upon my premises.”

“Weel, minister,” said Saunders, penitently, “I ken brawly I’m i’ the wrang; but ye ken yersel’, gin ye had gotten a dinnle i’ the elbuck that garred ye loup like a troot i’ Luckie Mowatt’s pool, or gin ye had cuttit yersel’ wi’ yer ain razor, wad ’Effectual Callin’,’ think ye, hae been the first word i’ yer mooth?  Noo, minister, fair Hornie!”

“At any rate,” said the minister, “what I would have said or done is no excuse for you, as ye well know.  But how did it happen?”

“Weel, sir, ye see the way o’t was this:  I was thinkin’ to mysel’, ‘There’s twa or three ways o’ takin’ the buiks intil the pulpit—­ There’s the way consequential—­that’s Gilbert Prettiman o’ the Kirkland’s way.  Did ever ye notice the body?  He hauds the Bibles afore him as if he war Moses an’ Aaron gaun afore Pharaoh, wi’ the coat-taillies o’ him fleein’ oot ahint, an’ his chin pointin’ to the soon’in’-board o’ the pulpit.”

“Speak respectfully of the patriarchs,” said Mr. Welsh sententiously.  Saunders looked at him with some wonder expressed in his eyes.

“Far be it frae me,” he said, “to speak lichtly o’ ony ane o’ them (though, to tell the truth, some o’ them war gye boys).  I hae been ower lang connectit wi’ them, for I hae carriet the buiks for fifteen year, ever since my faither racket himsel’ howkin’ the grave o’ yer predecessor, honest man, an’ I hae leeved a’ my days juist ower the wa’ frae the kirk.”

“But then they say, Saunders,” said the minister, smilingly, “’the nearer the kirk the farther frae grace.’”

“’Deed, minister,” said Saunders, “Grace Kissock is a nice bit lassie, but an’ Jess will be no that ill in a year or twa, but o’ a’ the Kissocks commend me till Meg.  She wad mak’ a graund wife.  What think ye, minister?”

Mr. Welsh relaxed his habitual severe sadness of expression and laughed a little.  He was accustomed to the sudden jumps which his man’s conversation was wont to take.

“Nay,” he said, “but that is a question for you, Saunders.  It is not I that think of marrying her.”

“The Lord be thankit for that! for gin the minister gaed speerin’, what chance wad there be for the betheral?”

“Have you spoken to Meg herself yet?” asked Mr. Welsh.