deep as ever, but that he was much hurt and would not risk another repulse.  Very likely he had walked in from Kilbogie, perhaps without breakfast, and had now started to return to his cheerless manse.  It was a wetting spring rain, and he remembered that the Rabbi had no coat.  A fit of remorse overtook Carmichael, and he scoured the streets of Muirtown to find the Rabbi, imagining deeds of attention—­how he would capture him unawares mooning along some side street hopelessly astray; how he would accuse him of characteristic cunning and deep plotting; how he would carry him by force to the Kilspindie Arms and insist upon their dining in state; how the Rabbi would wish to discharge the account and find twopence in his pockets—­having given all his silver to an ex-Presbyterian minister stranded in Muirtown through peculiar circumstances; how he would speak gravely to the Rabbi on the lack of common honesty, and threaten a real prosecution, when the charge would be “obtaining a dinner on false pretences”; how they would journey to Kildrummie in high content, and—­the engine having whistled for a dogcart—­they would drive to Drumtochty manse, the sun shining through the rain as they entered the garden; how he would compass the Rabbi with observances, and the old man would sit again in the big chair full of joy and peace.  Ah, the kindly jests that have not come off in life, the gracious deeds that never were done, the reparations that were too late!  When Carmichael reached the station the Rabbi was already half-way to Kilbogie, trudging along wet, and weary, and very sad, because, although he had obeyed his conscience at a cost, it seemed to him as if all he had done was simply to alienate the boy whom God had given him, as a son in his old age, for even the guileless Rabbi suspected that the ecclesiastics considered his action foolishness and of no service to the Church of God.  Barbara’s language on his arrival was vituperative to a degree; she gave him food grudgingly, and when, in the early morning, he fell asleep over an open Father, he was repeating Carmichael’s name, and the thick old paper was soaked with tears.

His nemesis seized Carmichael so soon as he reached the Dunleith train in the shape of the Free Kirk minister of Kildrummie, who had purchased six pounds of prize seed potatoes, and was carrying the treasure home in a paper bag.  This bag had done after its kind, and spilt its contents, and as the distinguished agriculturist—­who had not seen his feet for years—­could only have stooped at the risk of apoplexy, he watched the dispersion of his potatoes with dismay, and hailed the arrival of Carmichael with exclamations of thankfulness.  It is wonderful over what an area six pounds of (prize) potatoes can deploy on a railway platform, and how the feet of passengers will carry them unto far distances.  Some might never have been restored to the bag had it not been for Kildrummie’s comprehensive eye and the physical skill with which he guided Carmichael,