The church door opened and a gentleman came out, a little man, boyish in the back, with the eager face of those who live too quickly.  But it was not at him that Tommy pointed reassuringly; it was at the monster church key, half of which protruded from his tail pocket and waggled like the hilt of a sword.

Speaking like an old residenter, Tommy explained that he had brought his sister to see the church, “She’s ta’en aback,” he said, picking out Scotch words carefully, “because it’s littler than the London kirks, but I telled her—­I telled her that the preaching is better.”

This seemed to please the stranger, for he patted Tommy on the head while inquiring, “How do you know that the preaching is better?”

“Tell him, Elspeth,” replied Tommy modestly.

“There ain’t nuthin’ as Tommy don’t know,” Elspeth explained.  “He knows what the minister is like too.”

“He’s a noble sight,” said Tommy.

“He can get anything from God he likes,” said Elspeth.

“He’s a terrible big man,” said Tommy.

This seemed to please the little gentleman less.  “Big!” he exclaimed, irritably; “why should he be big?”

“He is big,” Elspeth almost screamed, for the minister was her last hope.

“Nonsense!” said the little gentleman.  “He is—­well, I am the minister.”

“You!” roared Tommy, wrathfully.

“Oh, oh, oh!” sobbed Elspeth.

For a moment the Rev. Mr. Dishart looked as if he would like to knock two little heads together, but he walked away without doing it.

“Never mind,” Tommy whispered hoarsely to Elspeth.  “Never mind, Elspeth, you have me yet.”

This consolation seldom failed to gladden her, but her disappointment was so sharp to-day that she would not even look up.

“Come away to the cemetery, it’s grand,” he said; but still she would not be comforted.

“And I’ll let you hold my hand—­as soon as we’re past the houses,” he added.

“I’ll let you hold it now,” he said eventually; but even then Elspeth cried dismally, and her sobs were hurting him more than her.

He knew all the ways of getting round Elspeth, and when next he spoke it was with a sorrowful dignity.  “I didna think,” he said, “as yer wanted me never to be able to speak again; no, I didna think it, Elspeth.”

She took her hands from her face and looked at him inquiringly.

“One of the stories mamma telled me and Reddy,” he said, “were about a man what saw such a beauty thing that he was struck dumb with admiration.  Struck dumb is never to be able to speak again, and I wish I had been struck dumb when you wanted it.”

“But I didn’t want it!” Elspeth cried.

“If Thrums had been one little bit beautier than it is,” he went on solemnly, “it would have struck me dumb.  It would have hurt me sore, but what about that, if it pleased you!”