Mrs. Mowdiewort’s lecture on church history was not at all appreciated by the session.  The minister rose.

“We will close this sederunt,” he said; “we can mak’ nocht o’ these two.  Alexander Mowdiewort, thou art removed from thy office of grave-digger in the parish kirkyard, and both thysel’ and thy mother are put under suspension for contumacy!”

“Haith!” said Elspeth Mowdiewort, pushing back her hair; “did ye ever hear the mak’ o’ the craitur.  I haena been within his kirk door for twenty year.  It’s a guid job that a body can aye gang doon to godly Maister Welsh, though he’s an awfu’ body to deave [deafen] ye wi’ the Shorter Quastions.”

“An it’s a guid thing,” added Saunders, “that there’s a new cemetery a-makkin’.  There’s no room for anither dizzen in yer auld kailyaird onyway—­an’ that I’m tellin’ ye.  An’ I’m promised the new job too.  Ye can howk yer ain graves yersel’s.”

“Fash na yer heid, Saunders, aboot them,” said the old betheral at the door; “it’s me that’s to be grave-digger, but ye shall howk them a’ the same in the mornin’, an’ get the siller, for I’m far ower frail—­ye can hae them a’ by afore nine o’clock, an’ the minister disna pu’ up his bedroom blind till ten!”

Thus it was that Saunders Mowdiewort ended his connection with an Erastian establishment, and became a true and complete member of the Marrow kirk.  His mother also attended with exemplary diligence, but she was much troubled with a toothache on the days of catechising, and never quite conquered her unruly member to the last.  But this did not trouble herself much—­only her neighbours.

CHAPTER XVII.

When the kye comes hame.

That night Saunders went up over the hill again, dressed in his best.  He was not a proud lover, and he did not take a rebuff amiss; besides, he had something to tell Meg Kissock.  When he got to Craig Ronald, the girls were in the byre at the milking, and at every cow’s tail there stood a young man, rompish Ebie Farrish at that at which Jess was milking, and quiet Jock Forrest at Meg’s.  Ebie was joking and keeping up a fire of running comment with Jess, whose dark-browed gipsy face and blue-black wisps of hair were set sideways towards him, with her cheek pressed upon Lucky’s side, as she sent the warm white milk from her nimble fingers, with a pleasant musical hissing sound against the sides of the milking-pail.

Farther up the byre, Meg leaned her head against Crummy and milked steadily.  Apparently she and Jock Forrest were not talking at all.  Jock looked down and only a quiver of the corner of his beard betrayed that he was speaking.  Meg, usually so outspoken and full of conversation, appeared to be silent; but really a series of short, low-toned sentences was being rapidly exchanged, so swiftly that no one, standing a couple of yards away, could have remarked the deft interchange.