It was not the custom of Auld Licht ministers to leave any house without offering up a prayer in it, and to us it always seemed that when Gavin prayed, he was at the knees of God.  The little minister pouring himself out in prayer in a humble room, with awed people around him who knew much more of the world than he, his voice at times thick and again a squeal, and his hands clasped not gracefully, may have been only a comic figure, but we were old-fashioned, and he seemed to make us better men.  If I only knew the way, I would draw him as he was, and not fear to make him too mean a man for you to read about.  He had not been long in Thrums before he knew that we talked much of his prayers, and that doubtless puffed him up a little.  Sometimes, I daresay, he rose from his knees feeling that he had prayed well to-day, which is a dreadful charge to bring against anyone.  But it was not always so, nor was it so now.

I am not speaking harshly of this man, whom I have loved beyond all others, when I say that Nanny came between him and his prayer.  Had he been of God’s own image, unstained, he would have forgotten all else in his Maker’s presence, but Nanny was speaking too, and her words choked his.  At first she only whispered, but soon what was eating her heart burst out painfully, and she did not know that the minister had stopped.

They were such moans as these that brought him back to earth:—­

“I’ll hae to gang...  I’m a base woman no’ to be mair thankfu’ to them that is so good to me...  I dinna like to prig wi’ them to take a roundabout road, and I’m sair fleid a’ the Roods will see me...  If it could just be said to poor Sanders when he comes back that I died hurriedly, syne he would be able to haud up his head ...  Oh, mither! ...  I wish terrible they had come and ta’en me at nicht...  It’s a dog-cart, and I was praying it micht be a cart, so that they could cover me wi’ straw.”

“This is more than I can stand,” the doctor cried.

Nanny rose frightened.

“I’ve tried you, sair,” she said, “but, oh, I’m grateful, and I’m ready now.”

They all advanced toward the door without another word, and Nanny even tried to smile.  But in the middle of the floor something came over her, and she stood there.  Gavin took her hand, and it was cold.  She looked from one to the other, her mouth opening and shutting.

“I canna help it,” she said.

“It’s cruel hard,” muttered the doctor.  “I knew this woman when she was a lassie.”

The little minister stretched out his hands.

“Have pity on her, O God!” he prayed, with the presumptuousness of youth.

Nanny heard the words.

“Oh, God,” she cried, “you micht!”

God needs no minister to tell Him what to do, but it was His will that the poorhouse should not have this woman.  He made use of a strange instrument, no other than the Egyptian, who now opened the mud-house door.