“Hendry,” I replied instantly, “why is the Auld Licht bell ringing?”

He put his finger to his lip.  “I see,” he said imperturbably, “you’ve met our folk in the glen and heard frae them about the minister.”

“What folk?”

“Mair than half the congregation,” he replied, “I started for Glen Quharity twa hours syne to help the farmers.  You didna see them?”

“No; they must have been on the other side of the river.”  Again that question forced my lips, “Why is the bell ringing?”

“Canny, dominie,” he said, “till we’re up the stair.  Mysy Moncur’s lug’s at her keyhole listening to you.”

“You lie, Hendry Munn,” cried an invisible woman.  The voice became more plaintive:  “I ken a heap, Hendry, so you may as well tell me a’.”

“Lick away at the bone you hae,” the shoemaker replied heartlessly, and conducted me to his room up one of the few inside stairs then in Thrums.  Hendry’s oddest furniture was five boxes, fixed to the wait at such a height that children could climb into them from a high stool.  In these his bairns slept, and so space was economized.  I could never laugh at the arrangement, as I knew that Betty had planned it on her deathbed for her man’s sake.  Five little heads bobbed up in their beds as I entered, but more vexing to me was Wearyworld on a stool.

“In by, dominie,” he said sociably.  “Sal, you needna fear burning wi’ a’ that water on you, You’re in mair danger o’ coming a-boil.”

“I want to speak to you alone, Hendry,” I said bluntly.

“You winna put me out, Hendry?” the alarmed policeman entreated.  “Mind, you said in sic weather you would be friendly to a brute beast.  Ay, ay, dominie, what’s your news?  It’s welcome, be it good or bad.  You would meet the townsfolk in the glen, and they would tell you about Mr. Dishart.  What, you hinna heard?  Oh, sirs, he’s a lost man.  There would hae been a meeting the day to depose him if so many hadna gaen to the glen.  But the morn’ll do as weel.  The very women is cursing him, and the laddies has begun to gather stanes.  He’s married on an Egyp—­”

“Hendry!” I cried, like one giving an order.

“Wearyworld, step!” said Hendry sternly, and then added soft-heartedly:  “Here’s a bit news that’ll open Mysy Moncur’s door to you.  You can tell her frae me that the bell’s ringing just because I forgot to tie it up last nicht, and the wind’s shaking it, and I winna gang out in the rain to stop it.”

“Ay,” the policeman said, looking at me sulkily, “she may open her door for that, but it’ll no let me in.  Tell me mair.  Tell me wha the leddy at the manse is.”

“Out you go,” answered Hendry.  “Once she opens the door, you can shove your foot in, and syne she’s in your power.”  He pushed Wearyworld out, and came back to me, saying, “It was best to tell him the truth, to keep him frae making up lies.”

“But is it the truth?  I was told Lang Tammas—­”