When Mrs. Sangster found herself safe in a human habitation, she relaxed the tense control in which she had held her faculties, and let nature have its way.

She sank into a chair beside the fire, and trembled and shivered and wept profusely for some time. Mrs. Boague heaped fuel on the fire, removed her shoes, chafed her feet, disencumbered her by degrees of her outer and wetter garments, which she hung up to dry, and wrapped her in warm plaids and blankets. The warm cup of tea which she then offered was fortified with a dash from her husband's private bottle, very privately added and not mentioned. It acted like a charm in restoring vigour and composure to the way-worn lady.

'Your tea is most refreshing, Mrs. Boague. I feel greatly better, and very thankful to you for your kind attention.'

'An' kindly welcome ye are, mem, an' mair I wad like to do gin I juist kenned what ye wad like. It's no often a kenned face, or ony face ava for that matter, comes by here-awa, forbye a wheen gillies, raxin' their breekless shanks alang the braes ahint the gentles. I'm a laich country woman mysel', an' I hae sma' brew o' the hieland folk, wi' their kilts an' their pipes, the daft antics. An' forbye that, we're no e'y Hielands here! Ye'll gang twenty mile afore ye'll come on the Gaelic. It's juist a maggit the General's gotten intil's heid, to pet his folk in kilts like a curran playactors, an' please my leddy wha cam frae the North. An' are ye comin' round, mem? Ye were sair forfuchan whan ye gat down first.'

'Greatly better, thank you; I think I could take another cup of your tea, it seems quite to invigorate me. The rich cream, I suppose, and the fine mountain air. You have many mercies, Mrs. Boague, many mercies, and I hope you are duly thankful.'

'Ou ay, mem. Rael thankfu'; but I'm thinkin' it's what cam frae Stephen's crame pat 'at maks the tea sae nappy. It's Luckie Tuppeny's gill stoup gae that crame, an' no the kye here-awa I'm thinkin'. An' as for thankfu'ness for our mercies, we beut a' to hae that, as the minister says. It's o' the Lord's mercies we're no consumed, gentle and simple thegither; we're a' John Tamson's bairns sae far as that gangs, or aiblins Auld Nick's, wha kens? gin we dinna repent.'

'Ah! very true, and a solemn thought,' said Mrs. Sangster. She was accustomed to do the Scripture quoting and solemn warnings herself, when she visited her poorer neighbours, sandwiching her dole-bread with rich and succulent slices of good advice; but here for once the tables were turned. It was Mrs. Boague this time, who was performing the act of mercy, and she realized the privileges of her position. While proud and pleased to show hospitality to Mrs. Sangster, she was not going to submit to exhortation such as flesh and blood can only tolerate in view of an eleemosynary accompaniment. Mrs. Boague saw in Mrs. Sangster a fellow-member of the Free Church, a Christian sister, and was disposed to be very sisterly indeed. Mrs. Sangster liked Christian sisterhood too, but it was sisterhood with Lady Grizel Pitlochrie, and other Free Churchwomen of noble birth. We all like to look upwards, even in bestowing our best and purest affections, and feel it easier to realize the brotherhood of man in connection with Lord Dives in his coach, than with poor Lazarus who sweeps the crossing, and gets the mud spatters from his Lordship's wheels.

Mrs. Sangster held the old-fashioned notion, that God, having made her a lady, meant her to rule, instruct, rebuke and direct the lower classes in the paths of holiness; but, alas! the Free Church movement, which gave this idea increased occupation, was sapping the foundations on which it rested. A secession from, and a protest against authority in Church and State, it asked the rich to induce and influence the poor, while itself courted them by dwelling strongly on their equal standing in the Church. It has certainly led to a more democratic state of feeling in the country, and this may or may not be a good thing, according as the democracy is wise or the reverse. Meanwhile, it has loosened old ties of interdependence, and helped to widen the gulf between the classes; but then all advancement has to be paid for--Adam and Eve got their eyes opened, but, to compensate, they were turned out of the garden. The question in either case is, is the gain worth the price paid for it?

The price Mrs. Sangster had to pay for her entertainment, and she was quick enough to see it at once and to submit, was familiarity: so she repeated, 'Very true, indeed, Mrs. Boague, and really Stephen's cream-pot brings out the flavour of the tea. It's a grand idea, I must give Mr. Sangster some the next time he is kept late at a meeting of the Presbytery or the Kirk-session. He comes home so tired sometimes. These are searching times, Mrs. Boague, we have all need to keep our loins girded and our lamps burning. But you know that yourself, Mrs. Boague. And a sweet quiet home you have here, and such fine healthy children. It must be sweet to live here in the great solitude of nature, and most imposing. Away from the temptations of the world, you must have much time for meditation and the perusal of the Word.

'I'm no sae sure o' that, mem. Gin ye had sax bairns to tent an' skelp an' do for, ye'd find yer haunds braw an' fu', no to mention the ither clout that's aye wantin' on yer gudeman's breeks. It's sma' time I hae for Bible readin' 'at canna get a steek peuten in my ain claes whiles. Whaur wad I be gin I gaed meditatin', an' a' thae bairns wi' naething i' their wee wames, skirlin' for a piece, round a teum aumbry? Na, na, mem! The better pairt's no for puir folk! gin that means glowerin' at print. It maun be for you gentles, 'at gars ither folk do yer wark, an' sits a' day fornent the fire toastin' yer hirdies.'

'Ah, Mrs. Boague! wealth and station bring great anxieties, duties, and temptations. The rich are not to be envied.'

'Belike no, mem; but I ne'er saw the ane wad gie up the siller sae lang as they cud hing on til't. An' as for the solitude o' natur, what thocht ye o't yersel', whan ye cam spielin' doun the braeside an hour syne?'

'Ah! Indeed, Mrs. Boague, that was a painful experience, and very thankful I am to be in bigget land again. Indeed, I almost gave up hope of ever coming down alive, and if it had not been for Roderick Brown, that good young man, I believe I would have stuck fast. It was a fearsome road. We came through burns and down crags, but he has brought me safe down, like the good pastor he is, guiding the trembling steps of a lamb of his flock.'

'Ou ay, mem; mony's the time my gudeman Stephen diz the same, whan he finds some teough auld yow stucken faur up amang the scaurs. He juist pu's her doon by the lug an' the horn, an' she'll come hirplin' hame ahint him, juist sic like as it micht be yersel'.'

'Ah yes! a shepherd's work. It seems an appropriate thing to have been done by my pastor. Reminds one of many beautiful passages, and brings them home with a force which I feel most improving. I shall certainly mention it to the next minister I meet. Poor Roderick. He's young yet, and I could hardly expect him to guide me, that might be his mother, through the rough places of dark and difficult doctrines; but he has done his part in the physical difficulty, and no doubt in future years he may have a like privilege in spiritual things. Oh yes, a good young man, and a faithful shepherd!'

'Wha kens? Gin a' the folk says be true, he's liker the wolf in sheep's clothin' 'at's mentioned in Scripter, than a faithfu' shepherd. Gin I had a dochter come to the age o' speerin' for, its no him suld come keekin' round my toun wi' his souple tongue an' his holy sough, I'se warrant. But ye ken yer ain business, mistress, an', ony gate, ye were wise to keep him in yer ain hands, an' no hae him danderin' round wi' the lassie.'

'What do ye mean, woman? I have known Roderick Brown since he was born, and there never was a better, steadier, or more pious young man in the parish. Man or boy, you will hardly find his like between here and Edinburgh.'

'Belike mem!--belike--Folk's a' gude till they're fand out. Wha kens whaur ony o' us wad stand, gin a' was kenned? But ye see mem, it's like a' to be fand out concernin' his misdoin's, an' it's but a cracket pig, or a broken cistern his repitation's like to pruive whan a's kenned.'

'Woman!--What do ye mean?'

'Wummin yersel' mem! I ken I'm a wummin, an' sae are ye! But I'm a decent man's wife, an' his name's Stephen Boague. Sae dinna misca' me. I'm no beggin'.'

'But what can you mean? No calumny surely could touch the character of Mr. Brown!'

'I ken naething o' calumny, an' I never lee. But gin ye like to hear as was telled to me ye're walcome. Ye'll ken auld Tibbie Tirpie 'at bides down by Glen Effick, an' belike ye'll mind her lassie; young Tib, folk ca's her, a pridefu' scart 'at shoos whiles at the castle, an' cocks her neb ower ither folic, wi' her veil an' her parrysol an' the gumflowers in her mutch, like's decent folk was na gude eneugh for her! Aweel mem, an' wae I am to say the like o' ony puir lass, but she's gane wrang, an' wha but the minister to blame for't.'

'Nonsense! Mrs. Boague, I don't believe a word of it!'

'Juist what I said mysel', mem. But bide a wee, till ye hear the pruifs. Ye see, mem, the lass gaed awa, naebody kenned whaur, an' fient a word spak her mither about it. An' lang she stayed, till ae dark nicht, yon terrible nicht, ye'll mind it? Hame she comes e'y coach, a' happit up, an' hidin' like, an' greetin' sair, an' out she slinks at her mither's door, an' nane wad hae kenned ocht about it but for Mistress Briggs my leddy's woman, down by. An' that same nicht, aff gaes the minister, in a' yon wind an' ren. It was lang after decent folk was in their beds, an' naebody was steerin' to see him gang. An' next day he brings hame a bairn, an' gies't til his sister to tak tent on--the puir young leddy! To mak a fule o' her that gate, wi' a merry-begotten wein! That caps a', says I, whan I heard it. An' syne naething maun do but baptis't, an' mak a fule o' the Kirk's solemn ordinance. An' there was Tib, I saw her wi' my ain e'en, keekin ower the folk's heads, like's she thocht shame to be at the preachin' ava, an sae weel she micht. An whan it cam to bringin' out the bairns, awa she slinks hame, wi the niepkin stappit in her mouth to keep in the greet. I saw't a' mysel', mem, an what mair pruif wad a body hae? Folk dinna do their deeds o' darkness in day licht an' a' body lookin' on, sae it's juist by pettin' that an' that thegither, ye can houp to find them out. But there's mair yet. O' Sawbith nicht whan a' was dark, wha suld be seen comin' out o' Tibbie s door but the minister? An' wha gangs down to Peter Malloch's shop o' Monday mornin' but Tibbie? an' she had siller wi'her, a pund note an' nae less. A note o' the Bank o' Peterhead, 'at naebody round here ever has but Mester Brown, an' his siller a' comes frae there. Noo, what say ye til a' that? Mistress Sangster. The wicked man diz his deeds e'y dark but the Lord will bring them t'ey licht, that's what I say, an it's scriptur, or gye an like it. Belike it was a minister I heard preachin't--But is't no terrible?'

'I am confounded, Mrs. Boague! Who ever could have supposed it? But the evidence is so circumstantial, it is impossible to doubt. It seems providential that I should have come here to learn all this. And that he should have presumed to come to Auchlippie, philandering after Sophia! Would nothing less than my daughter do for him? The reprobate! But oh! He shall smart for it!'

'Ca' canny! mem. Has the young leddy a kindness for him, think ye? It's sair wark to bawk young luve. He's a likely chield eneugh, an' micht mak no sae ill a gudeman, noo the daffin's by. It's no aye the warst o' the men gangs wrang about the lasses. As for that limmer, Tib Tirpie, I'd bring her to shame. The cuttie stule's a' she's gude for, wi' her gumflowers an' her veils, cockin' her neb at decent folk, an' scancin' at my tuscan bonnet, that was gien me by my ain gudeman, the year he married me. But, as I was sayin', gin the young leddy had a rael kindness for him, ye're no bund to ken a' 'at gaed afore; and let byganes be byganes. It'll a' blaw ower.'

'But there's nothing. He no doubt has paid my daughter some attention, or at least has come a great deal to the house; but she is far too well-principled a young woman, to have any liking for a man who has not proposed and been accepted by her parents. In our rank of life, Mrs. Boague, things are not done exactly as they are in yours.'

'Aiblins no, mem. Ye think ower muckle o' the gear for that!' said the other, the radical once more rising within her, and the colour coming to her face. But the rattle of wheels without and a knock at the door changed the current of their thoughts, before the two had time to join in wordy battle, in which, perhaps, victory might not have chosen the gentlewoman's side.

Mrs. Sangster, with profuse thanks and salutations, climbed into the tax-cart, while the anxious mother busied herself in pulling her numerous brood from among the horse's feet. The vehicle at length was safely started on its return down the glen, without damage done to any of the children. Mrs. Boague returned indoors, bearing the most refractory of her offspring in her arms, and the last that was heard of her was the sound of maternal discipline and the wails of the culprit, echoing down the glen till it was smothered in the mist.

Arrived at the inn, Mrs. Sangster found the gentlemen ready for dinner. She grumbled at the delay, but submitted; she would, however, on no account allow the minister's repose to be disturbed, and assured Mrs. Tuppeny that with his delicate constitution, it might be as much as his life was worth, to let him get up again that afternoon.

Having dined, the party made haste to be gone, under pressure of the old lady's impatience; for of all the anxieties of that anxious day the most harassing to her now was that Roderick would come down and join them on the home-going. That would be dreadful, yet how was she to forbid him? He had come as her guest, and he had, in all probability, saved her life a few hours since on the hill. It needed advice and consideration to decide what she should do or say at their next meeting, in view of the dreadful revelations of his depravity which had been made to her.

She wanted to sleep over it, and felt, to use her own pietistic phrase, deeply thankful, when at last the inn was safely vanishing in the distance, without her having met him.

Had she but known she might have spared her fears. Roderick was really ill; too ill to observe that she neither came nor sent to enquire for him. He tossed about on the bed where he had lain down some hours before, hardly asleep and not quite awake. The heat of a fire and a feather bed, too many blankets, and Mrs. Tuppeny's toddy, had thrown him into something like a fever, yet fatigue and general oppression had stupified him past seeking relief. When the stupor lessened, a dull hot aching was in every joint, and he moved restlessly on the bed. Then the heavy eyes would close again in a kind of slumber, but the restless thoughts refused to go to sleep. An inarticulate anxiety clung to him, and he climbed up endless precipices in his dreams. Up and up he would drag himself, and anon Sophia would appear higher up still on a peak above him, and he would climb and climb to reach her. As he approached, her features would change, and, slowly taking the likeness of her mother, she would spurn him, and then with a cry he would lose his hold, and begin to fall down and down through endless depths of nothing, till at last in utter panic his limbs would move, and the spell of the nightmare broken, he would awake.

Thus between waking and sleeping, the afternoon and the weary long night wore away. The sun was shining at last upon another day, and though manifestly ill, he was able to get into a gig and be driven home to Glen Effick.