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It was no very long season that he had to wait, and before he had done more than again lift up his interesting “authority,” the door of the study was pushed open and Betsy cried in, “Here he’s!” lest there might be any trouble in the identification. And not without some reason. For, strange as was the figure which had stepped into the minister’s lobby out of the storm, the vision which now met his eyes was infinitely stranger.

A thick-set body little over four and a half feet high, exceedingly thick and stout, was surmounted with one of the most curious heads the minister had ever seen. He saw a round apple face, eyes of extraordinary brightness, a thin-lipped mouth which seemed to meander half-way round the head as if uncertain where to stop. Betsy had arrayed this “object” in a pink bed-gown of her own, a pair of the minister’s trousers turned up nearly to the knee in a roll the thickness of a man’s wrist, and one of the minister’s new-fangled M.B. waistcoats, through the armholes of which two very long arms escaped, clad as far as the elbows in the sleeves of the pink bed-gown.

Happily the minister was wholly destitute of a sense of humour (and therefore clearly marked for promotion in the Church); and the privation stood him in good stead now. It only struck him as a little irregular to be sitting in the study with a person so attired. But he thought to himself–“After all, he may be one of My People.”

“And what can I do for you?” he said kindly, when the Object was seated opposite to him on the very edge of a large arm-chair, the pink arms laid like weapons of warfare upon his knees, and the broad hands warming themselves in a curious unattached manner at the fire.

“Ye see, sir,” began the Object, “I am Seemion Gleg, an’ I am ettlin’ to be a minister.”

The Reverend Robert Ford Buchanan started. He came of a Levitical family, and over his head there were a series of portraits of very dignified gentlemen in extensive white neckerchiefs, his forebears and predecessors in honourable office–a knee-breeched, lace-ruffled moderator among them.

It was as if a Prince of the Blood had listened to some rudely democratic speech from a waif of the causeway.

“A minister!” he exclaimed. Then, as a thought flashed across him–“Oh, a Dissenting preacher!” he continued.

This would explain matters.

“Na, na,” said Simeon Gleg; “nae Dissenter ava’. I’m for the Kirk itsel’–the Auld Kirk or naething. That was the way my mither brocht me up. An’ I want to learn Greek an’ Laitin. I hae plenty o’ spare time, an’ my maister gies me a’ the forenichts. I can learn at the peat fire after the ither men are gane to their beds.”

“Your master!” said the minister. “Do you mean your teacher?”

“Na, na,” said Simeon Gleg; “I mean Maister Golder o’ the Glaisters. I serve there as plooman!”

“You!” exclaimed the minister, aghast. “How old may you be?”

“I’m gaun in my nineteenth year,” said Simeon. “I’m no’ big for my age, I ken; but I can throw ony man that I get grups on, and haud ony beast whatsomever. I can ploo wi’ the best an’ maw–Weel, I’m no’ gaun to brag, but ye can ask Maister Golder–that is an elder o’ your ain, an’ comes at least twa Sabbaths afore every Communion to hear ye.”

“But why do ye want to learn Greek and Latin?” queried the minister.

“Weel, ye see, sir,” said Simeon Gleg, leaning forward to poke the manse fire with the toe of his stocking–the minister watching with interest to see if he could do it without burning the wool–“I hae saved twunty pounds, and I thocht o’ layin’ it oot on the improvement o’ my mind. It’s a heap o’ money, I ken; but, then, my mind needs a feck o’ impruvement–if ye but kenned hoo ignorant I am, ye wadna wonder. Ay, ay”–taking, as it were, a survey of the whole ground–“my mind will stand a deal o’ impruvement. It’s gey rough, whinny grund, and has never been turned owre. But I was thinkin’ Enbra wad gie it a rare bit lift. What do ye think o’ the professors there? I was hearin’ some o’ them wasna thocht muckle o’!”