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“The first place where the minister gaed,” continued my son, “was the clauchan o’ Milnthird. He was gaun to see Leezie Scott, her that has been ill sae lang. He gaed in there an’ bade a gey while, wi’ Airchie haudin’ ae side o’ the horse’s heid an’ me the ither–no’ that auld Jess wad hae run away if ye had tied a kettle to her tail–“

“Be mair circumspect in yer talk,” said his mother; “mind it’s a minister’s horse!”

“Weel, onyway, I could see through the wundy, an’ the lassie was haudin’ the minister’s haun’, an’ him speakin’ an’ lookin’ up at somebody that I didna see, but maybe the lassie did, for she lay back in her bed awfu’ thankfu’-like. But her mither never thankit the minister ava’, juist turned her back an’ grat into her peenie. Mr. Marchbanks cam’ oot; but I saw nae mair, for I had to turn an’ rin, or he wad hae seen me, an’ maybe askit me to hae a ride!”

“An’ what for wad ye no’ be prood to ride wi’ the godly man?” asked my wife.

“He micht ask me my quaistions, an’ though I’ve been lickit thirteen times for Effectual Callin’, I canna get mair nor half through wi’t. [‘Yer faither’s wi’ ye there, laddie,’ said I, under my breath.] Gin Mr. Marchbanks wad aye look like what he did when he cam oot o’ Leezie Scott’s, I wadna rin for the heather when he comes. Then he had a bit crack in twa-three o’ the hooses wi’ the auld wives that wasna at the wark, though he has nae mair members in the clauchan, them bein’ a’ Auld Kirkers. But Mr. Marchbanks didna mind that, but ca’ed on them a’, an’ pat up a prayer standin’ wi’ his staff in his hand and wi’ his hair owre his shoother.”

“Hoo div ye ken?” I asked, curious to know how the boy had sketched the minister so exactly.

“I juist keekit ben, for I likit to see’t.”

“The assurance o’ the loon!” cried his mither, but not ill-pleased. (O these mothers!)

“Then we cam’ to the auld mill, an’ the minister gaed in to see blin’ Maggie Affleck, an’ when he cam’ oot I’m sure as daith that he left something that jingled on the kitchen table. On the doorstep he says, wi’ a bricht face on him, ‘Marget, it’s me that needs to thank you, for I get a lesson frae ye every time that I come here.’ Though hoo blind Mag Affleck can learn a minister wi’ lang white hair, is mair nor me or Airchie Marchbanks could mak’ oot. Sae we gaed on, an’ the minister gied every ragged bairn that was on the road that day a ride, till the auld machine was as thrang as it could stick, like a merry-go-roon’ at the fair. Only, he made them a’ get oot at the hills an’ walk up, as he did himsel’. ‘Deed, he walkit near a’ the road, an’ pu’ed the auld meer efter him insteed o’ her drawin’ him. ‘I wish my faither wad lend me the whup!’ Airchie said, an’ he tried to thig it awa’ frae his faither. But the minister was mair gleg than ye wad think, and Airchie got the whup, but it was roon the legs, an’ it garred him loup and squeal!”

My wife nodded grim approval.

“When we got to Drumquhat,” continued Alec, “it was gey far on in the efternune, an’ the minister an’ my mither lowsed the powny an’ stabled it afore gaun ben. Then me an’ Airchie were sent oot to play, as my mither kens. We got on fine a while, till Airchie broke my peerie an’ pooched the string. Then he staned the cats that cam’ rinnin’ to beg for milk an’ cheese–cats that never war clodded afore. He wadna be said ‘no’ to, though I threepit I wad tell his faither. Then at the hinner-en’ he got into my big blue coach, and wadna get oot. I didna mind that muckle, for I hadna been in ‘t mysel’ for six months. But he made faces at me through the hole in the back, an’ that I couldna pit up wi’–nae boy could. For it was my ain coach, minister’s son or no’ minister’s son. Weel, I had the cross-bow and arrow that Geordie Grier made me–the yin that shoots the lumps o’ hard wud. So I let fire at Airchie, just when he was makin’ an awfu’ face, and the billet took him fair atween the een. Into the hoose he ran to his faither, ba-haain‘ wi’ a’ his micht; an’ oot cam’ the minister, as angry as ye like, wi’ my mither ahint him like to greet.”

‘”Deed, I was that!” said Mrs. M’Quhirr.

“‘What for did ye hit my son’s nose wi’ a billet of wood through the hole in your blue coach?’ the minister asked me.

“‘Because your son’s nose was at the hole in my blue coach!’ says I, as plain as if he hadna been a minister, I was that mad. For it was my coach, an’ a bonny-like thing gin a boy couldna shoot at a hole in his ain blue coach! Noo, faither, mind there was to be nae lickin’ gin I telt ye the truth!”

There was no licking–which, if you know my wife, you will find no difficulty in believing.