He looked over.  He saw the stars, which were perfectly reflected a hundred yards away on the smooth expanse, first waver, then tremble, and lastly break into a myriad delicate shafts of light, as the water quickened and gathered.  He spat in the water, and thought of trout for breakfast.  But the long roar of the rapids of the Dee came over the hill, and a feeling of stillness with it, weird and remote.  Uncertain lights shot hither and thither under the bridge, in strange gleams of reflection.  The ploughman was awed.  He continued to gaze.  The stillness closed in upon him.  The aromatic breath of the pines seemed to cool him and remove him from himself.  He had a sense that it was Sabbath morning, and that he had just washed his face to go to church.  It was the nearest thing to worship he had ever known.  Such moments come to the most material, and are their theology.  Far off a solitary bird whooped and whinnied.  It sounded mysterious and unknown, the cry of a lost soul.  Ebie Farrish wondered where he would go to when he died.  He thought this over for a little, and then he concluded that it were better not to dwell on this subject.  But the crying on the lonely hills awed him.  It was only a Jack snipe from whose belated nest an owl had stolen two eggs.  But it was Ebie Farrish’s good angel.  He resolved that he would go seldomer to the village public o’ nights, and that he would no more find cakes and ale sweet to his palate.  It was a foregone conclusion that on Saturday night he would be there, yet what he heard and saw on Grannoch Bridge opened his sluggish eyes.  Of a truth there was that in the world which had not been there for him before.  It is to Jess Kissock’s credit, that when Ebie was most impressed by the stillness and most under the spell of the night, he thought of her.  He was only an ignorant, godless, good-natured man, who was no more moral than he could help; but it is both a testimonial and a compliment when such a man thinks of a woman in his best and most solemn moments.

At that moment Jess Kissock was putting Winsome Charteris’s letter into her pocket.

There is no doubt that poor, ignorant Ebie, with his highly developed body and the unrestrained and irregular propensities of his rudimentary soul, was nearer the Almighty that night than his keen-witted and scheming sweetheart.

A trout leaped in the calm water, and Ebie stopped thinking of the eternities to remember where he had set a line.  Far off a cock crew, and the well-known sound warned Ebie that he had better be drawing near his bed.  He raised himself from the copestone of the parapet, and solemnly tramped his steady way up to the “onstead” of Craig Ronald, which took shape before him as he advanced like a low, grey-bastioned castle.  As he entered the low square on his way across to the stable door he was surprised to notice a gleam of light in the byre.  Ebie thought that some tramps were trespassing on the good nature of