The visitor received the shock impassively as if he did not know he had been hit, and Cathro proceeded with his narrative.  “Well, for a day or two Tommy Sandys has been coming to the school in a black jacket with crape on the cuffs, and not only so, he has sat quiet and forlorn-like at his desk as if he had lost some near and dear relative.  Now I knew that he had not, for his only relative is a sister whom you may have seen at the Hanky School, and both she and Aaron Latta are hearty.  Yet, sir (and this shows the effect he has on me), though I was puzzled and curious I dared not ask for an explanation.”

“But why not?” was the visitor’s natural question.

“Because, sir, he is such a mysterious little sacket,” replied Cathro, testily, “and so clever at leading you into a hole, that it’s not chancey to meddle with him, and I could see through the corner of my eye that, for all this woeful face, he was proud of it, and hoped I was taking note.  For though sometimes his emotion masters him completely, at other times he can step aside as it were, and take an approving look at it.  That is a characteristic of him, and not the least maddening one.”

“But you solved the mystery somehow, I suppose?”

“I got at the truth to-day by an accident, or rather my wife discovered it for me.  She happened to call in at the school on a domestic matter I need not trouble you with (sal, she needna have troubled me with it either!), and on her way up the yard she noticed a laddie called Lewis Doig playing with other ungodly youths at the game of kickbonnety.  Lewis’s father, a gentleman farmer, was buried jimply a fortnight since, and such want of respect for his memory made my wife give the loon a dunt on the head with a pound of sugar, which she had just bought at the ’Sosh.  He turned on her, ready to scart or spit or run, as seemed wisest, and in a klink her woman’s eye saw what mine had overlooked, that he was not even wearing a black jacket.  Well, she told him what the slap was for, and his little countenance cleared at once.  ‘Oh’ says he, ‘that’s all right, Tommy and me has arranged it,’ and he pointed blithely to a corner of the yard where Tommy was hunkering by himself in Lewis’s jacket, and wiping his mournful eyes with Lewis’s hanky.  I daresay you can jalouse the rest, but I kept Lewis behind after the school skailed, and got a full confession out of him.  He had tried hard, he gave me to understand, to mourn fittingly for his father, but the kickbonnety season being on, it was up-hill work, and he was relieved when Tommy volunteered to take it off his hands.  Tommy’s offer was to swop jackets every morning for a week or two, and thus properly attired to do the mourning for him.”

The dominie paused, and regarded his guest quizzically.  “Sir,” he said at length, “laddies are a queer growth; I assure you there was no persuading Lewis that it was not a right and honorable compact.”

“And what payment,” asked McLean, laughing, “did Tommy demand from Lewis for this service?”