Andrew Bogue, the ancient henchman of the Rev. Gavin Cassilis, minister of Airlie, who met her at the station, disapproved of her from the first as a foreign jade dressed so that all the men turned and looked at her as if she had been a snare of Satan.  Then, had not young Lord Earlshope, after introducing himself, taken a seat in the trap and talked with her in her own language as if he had known her for years?

“They jabbered away in their foreign lingo,” said Andrew that evening to his wife Leezibeth, the housekeeper “and I’m thinking it was siccan a language was talked in Sodom and Gomorrah.  And he was a’ smiles, and she was a’ smiles, and they seemed to think nae shame o’ themselves goin’ through a decent countryside!”

The Whaup himself had said, on the night of Coquette’s arrival, “Oh, she’s an actress, and I hate actresses!” But before many days had passed, he completely changed that hasty view.  The big, sturdy, long-legged lad succumbed to the charms of his parentless cousin—­the daughter of the minister’s brother, who had settled in France and taken to himself a French wife—­and he became her defender against those inhabitants of the Manse and the parish—­from his brother Wattie to the pragmatic schoolmaster—­whose prejudices she unintentionally outraged.

Even the minister was grieved when Coquette, as her father had called her, made a casual remark about the “last time she had gone to the mass.”

“I am deeply pained,” said the minister gravely.  “I knew not that my brother had been a pervert from the communion of our church.”

“Papa was not a Catholic,” said Coquette.  “Mamma and I were.  But it matters nothing.  I will go to your church—­it is the same to me.  I only try to be kind to the people around me—­that is all.”

“She has got the best part of all religions if she does her best for the people about her,” said the Whaup.

“Thomas,” remonstrated the minister severely, “you are not competent to judge of these things.”

Coquette’s second error was to play the piano on a Sabbath morning.  She was stopped in this hideous offence by the housekeeper, Leezibeth.

“Is the Manse to be turned topsalteery, and made a byword a’ because o’ a foreign hussy?” asked Leezibeth.

“Look here,” said the Whaup, trying to comfort his weeping cousin, “you can depend on me.  When you get into trouble, send for me, and if any man or woman in Airlie says a word to you, by jingo I’ll punch their head!”

The discovery of a crucifix over the head of the maiden’s bed filled full the cup of Leezibeth’s wrath and indignation.

“I thought the Cross was a symbol of all religions,” said Coquette humbly.  “If it annoys you, I will take it down.  My mother gave it to me—­I cannot put it away altogether.”

“You shall not part with it,” said the Whaup.  “Let me see the man or woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on it the woman o’ Babylon herself!”