“Alexander Moldieward, Alexander Moldieward!” cried old Snuffy Callum, the parish beadle, going to the door.  Then in a lower tone, “Come an’ answer for’t, Saunders.”

Mowdiewort and a large-boned, grim-faced old woman of fifty-five were close beside the door, but Christie cried past them as if the summoned persons were at the top of the Dullarg Hill at the nearest, and also as if he had not just risen from a long and confidential talk with them.

It was within the black interior of the old kirk that the session met, in the yard of which Saunders Mowdiewort had dug so many graves, and now was to dig no more, unless he appeased the ire of the minister and his elders for an offence against the majesty of their court and moderator.

“Alexander Moldieward!” again cried the old “betheral,” very loud, to some one on the top of the Dullarg Hill—­then in an ordinary voice, “come awa’, Saunders man, you and your mither, an’ dinna keep them waitin’—­they’re no chancy when they’re keepit.”

Saunders and his mother entered.

“Here I am, guid sirs, an’ you Mess John,” said the grave-digger very respectfully, “an’ my mither to answer for me, an’ guid een to ye a’.”

“Come awa’, Mistress Mowdiewort,” said the minister.  “Ye hae aye been a guid member in full communion.  Ye never gaed to a prayer-meetin’ or Whig conventicle in yer life.  It’s a sad peety that ye couldna keep your flesh an’ bluid frae companyin’ an’ covenantin’ wi’ them that lichtly speak o’ the kirk.”

“‘Deed, minister, we canna help oor bairns—­an’ ’deed ye can speak till himsel’.  He is of age—­ask him!  But gin ye begin to be ower sair on the callant, I’se e’en hae to tak’ up the cudgels mysel’.”

With this, Mistress Mowdiewort put her hands to the strings of her mutch, to feel that she had not unsettled them; then she stood with arms akimbo and her chest well forward like a grenadier, as if daring the session to do its worst.

“I have a word with you,” said Mess John, lowering at her; “it is told to me that yon keepit your son back from answering the session when it was his bounden duty to appear on the first summons.  Indeed, it is only on a warrant for blasphemy and the threat of deprivation of his liveli hood that he has come to-day.  What have you to say that he should not be deprived and also declarit excommunicate?”

“Weel, savin’ yer presence, Mess John,” said Mistress Mowdiewort, “ye see the way o’t is this:  Saunders, my son, is a blate [shy] man, an’ he canna weel speak for him sel’.  I thought that by this time the craiter micht hae gotten a wife again that could hae spoken for him, an’ had he been worth the weight o’ a bumbee’s hind leg he wad hae had her or this—­an’ a better yin nor the last he got.  Aye, but a sair trouble she was to me; she had juist yae faut, Saunders’s first wife, an’ that was she was nae use ava!  But it was a guid thing he was grave-digger, for he got her buriet for naething, an’ even the coffin was what ye micht ca’ a second-hand yin—­though it had never been worn, which was a wunnerfu’ thing.  Ye see the way o’t was this:  There was Creeshy Callum, the brither o’ yer doitit [stupid] auld betheral here, that canna tak’ up the buiks as they should (ye should see my Saunders tak’ them up at the Marrow kirk)—­”