“He’ll maybe mend o’ that opeenion, as mony a wise man has dune afore him,” said Meg, sententiously.  “Gae on, cuif; what else aboot the young man?”

“Oh, he’s a lad o’ great lear.  He can read ony language back or forrit, up or doon, as easy as suppin’ sowens.  He can speak byordinar’ graund.  They say he’ll beat the daddy o’ him for preachin’ when he’s leecensed.  He rade Birsie this mornin’ too, after the kickin’ randie had cuist me aff his back like a draff sack.”

“Then what’s queer aboot him?” said Jess.

Meg said nothing.  She felt a draft of air suck into Winsome’s room, so that she knew that the subject was of such interest that her mistress had again opened her window.  Meg leaned back so far that she could discern a glint of yellow hair in the darkness.

The cuif was about to light his pipe.  Meg stopped him.

“Nane o’ yer lichts here, cuif,” she said; “it’s time ye were thinkin’ aboot gaun ower the hill.  But ye haena’ telled us yet what’s queer aboot the lad.”

“Weel, woman, he’s aye write—­writin’, whiles on sheets o’ paper, and whiles on buiks.”

“There’s nocht queer aboot that,” says Meg; “so does ilka minister.”

“But Manse Bell gied me ane o’ his writings, that she had gotten aboot his bedroom somewhere.  She said that the wun’ had blawn’t aff his table, but I misdoot her.”

“Yer ower great wi’ Manse Bell an’ the like o’ her, for a man that comes to see me!” said Meg, who was a very particular young woman indeed.

“It was cuttit intil lengths like the metre psalms, but it luikit gye an’ daft like, sae I didna’ read it,” said the cuif hastily.  “Here it’s to ye, Meg.  I was e’en gaun to licht my cutty wi’t.”  Something shone gray-white in Saunders’s hand as he held it out to Meg, It passed into Meg’s palm, and then was seen no more.

The session at the house end was breaking up.  Jess had vanished silently.  Ebie Farrish was not.  Jock Forrest had folded his tent and stolen away.  Meg and Saunders were left alone.  It was his supreme opportunity.

He leaned over towards his sweetheart.  His blue bonnet had fallen to the ground, and there was a distinct odour of warm candle-grease in the air.

“Meg,” he said, “yer maist amazin’ bonny, an’ I’m that fond o’ ye that I am faain’ awa’ frae my meat!  O Meg, woman, I think o’ ye i’ the mornin’ afore the Lord’s Prayer, I sair misdoot!  Guid forgie me!  I find mysel’ whiles wonderin’ gin I’ll see ye the day afore I can gang ower in my mind the graves that’s to howk, or gin Birsie’s oats are dune.  O Meg, Meg, I’m that fell fond o’ ye that I gruppit that thrawn speldron Birsie’s hint leg juist i’ the fervour o’ thinkin’ o’ ye.”

“Hoo muckle hae ye i’ the week?” said Meg, practically, to bring the matter to a point.

“A pound a week,” said Saunders Mowdiewort, promptly, who though a cuif was a business man, “an’ a cottage o’ three rooms wi’ a graun’ view baith back an’ front!”