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“I hae been feeding the sheep at the pits, aunt,” said Kit Kennedy.

“Dinna tell me,” cried his aunt; “ye hae been wasting your time at some o’ your ploys. What do ye think that John MacWalter, silly man, feeds ye for? He has plenty o’ weans o’ his ain to provide for withoot meddling wi’ the like o’ you–careless, useless, fushionless blagyaird that ye are.”

Mistress Mac Walter had sat down on her stool to the milking by this time. But her temper was such that she was milking unkindly, and Crummie felt it. Also she had not forgotten, in her slow-moving bovine way, that she had been kicked. So in her turn she lifted her foot and let drive, punctuating a gigantic semi-colon with her cloven hoof just on that part of the person of Mistress MacWalter where it was fitted to take most effect.

Mistress MacWalter found herself on her back, with the milk running all over her. She picked herself up, helped by Kit, who had come to her assistance.

Her words were few, but not at all well ordered. She went to the byre door to get the driving-stick to lay on Crummie. Kit stopped her.

“If you do that, aunt, ye’ll pit a’ the kye to that o’t that they’ll no’ let doon a drap o’ milk this morning–an’ the morn’s kirning-day.”

Mistress Mac Walter knew that the boy was right; but she could only turn, not subdue, her anger. So she turned it on Kit Kennedy, for there was no one else there.

“Ye meddlin’ curse,” she cried, “it was a’ your blame!”

She had the shank of the byre besom in her hand as she spoke. With this she struck at the boy, who ducked his head and hollowed his back in a manner which showed great practice and dexterity. The blow fell obliquely on his coat, making a resounding noise, but doing no great harm.

Then Mistress MacWalter picked up her stool and sat down to another cow. Kit drew in to Crummie, and the twain comforted one another. Kit bore no malice, but he hoped that his aunt would not keep back his porridge. That was what he feared. No other word of good or bad said the Mistress of Loch Spellanderie by the Water of Ken. Kit carried the two great reaming cans of fresh milk into the milkhouse; and as he went out empty-handed, Mistress Mac Walter waited for him, and with a hand both hard and heavy fetched him a ringing blow on the side of the head, which made his teeth clack together and his eyes water.

“Tak’ that, ye gangrel loon!” she said.

Kit Kennedy went into the barn with fell purpose in his heart. He set up on end a bag of chaff, which was laid aside to fill a bed. He squared up to it in a deadly way, dancing lightly on his feet, his hands revolving in a most knowing manner.

His left hand shot out, and the sack of chaff went over in the corner.

“Stand up, Mistress MacWalter,” said Kit, “an’ we’ll see wha’s the better man.”

It was evidently Kit who was the better man, for the sack subsided repeatedly and flaccidly on the hard-beaten earthen floor. So Kit mauled Mistress MacWalter exceeding shamefully, and obtained so many victories over that lady that he quite pleased himself, and in time gat him into such a glow that he forgot all about the tingling on his ear which had so suddenly begun at the milkhouse door.

“After all, she keeps me!” said Kit Kennedy cheerily.

There was an angel up aloft who went into the inner court at that moment and told that Kit Kennedy had forgiven his enemies. He said nothing about the sack. So Kit Kennedy began the day with a clean slate and a ringing ear.

He went to the kitchen door to go in and get his breakfast.

“Gae’way wi’ ye! Hoo daur ye come to my door after what yer wark has been this mornin’?” cried Mistress MacWalter as soon as she heard him. “Aff to the schule wi’ ye! Ye get neither bite nor sup in my hoose the day.”