“Boys,” said the stern, quiet voice of the minister, “what are you doing to each other?  Are you aware it is against both the law of God and man to fight in this way?  It is only from the beasts that perish that we expect such conduct.”

“If ye please, sir,” answered Andra in a shamefaced way, yet with the assurance of one who knows that he has the authorities on his side, “Dick Little wull no bite the dust.”

“Bite the dust!—­what do you mean, laddie?” asked the minister, frowning.

“Weel sir, if ye please, sir, the Buik says that the yin that got his licks fell down and bit the dust.  Noo, Dick’s doon fair aneuch.  Ye micht speak till him to bite the dust!”

And Andra, clothed in the garments of conscious rectitude, stood back to give the minister room to deliver his rebuke.

The stern face of the minister relaxed.

“Be off with you to school,” he said; “I’ll look in to see if you have got there in the afternoon.”

Andra and Dick scampered down the road, snatching their satchels as they ran.  In half an hour they were making momentary music under the avenging birch rod of Duncan Duncanson, the learned Dullarg schoolmaster.  Their explanations were excellent.  Dick said that he had been stopped to gather the eggs, and Andra that he had been detained conversing with the minister.  The result was the same in both cases—­Andra getting double for sticking to his statement.  Yet both stories were true, though quite accidentally so, of course.  This is what it is to have a bad character.  Neither boy, however, felt any ill-will whatever at the schoolmaster.  They considered that he was there in order to lick them.  For this he was paid by their parents’ money, and it would have been a fraud if he had not duly earned his money by dusting their jackets daily.  Let it be said at once that he did most conscientiously earn his money, and seldom overlooked any of his pupils even for a day.

Back at the Grannoch bridge, under the parapet, Allan Welsh, the minister of the Kirk of the Marrow, found the white packet lying which Winsome had tied with such care.  He looked all round to see whence it had come.  Then taking it in his hand, he looked at it a long time silently, and with a strange and not unkindly expression on his face.  He lifted it to his lips and kissed the handwriting which addressed it to Master Ralph Peden.  As he paced away he carefully put it in the inner pocket of his coat.  Then, with his head farther forward than ever, and the immanence of his great brow overshadowing his ascetic face, he set himself slowly to climb the brae.

CHAPTER XII.

Midsummer dawn.

True love is at once chart and compass.  It led Ralph Peden out into a cloudy June dawning.  It was soft, amorphous, uncoloured night when he went out.  Slate-coloured clouds were racing along the tops of the hills from the south.  The wind blew in fitful gusts and veering flaws among the moorlands, making eddies and back-waters of the air, which twirled the fallen petals of the pear and cherry blossoms in the little manse orchard.