It was while the Squire's lady was driving through the village on a visit* to Tammas's slobbering grandson--it was shortly after Billy Thornton's advent into the world--that little M'Adam, standing in the door of the Sylvester Arms, with a twig in his mouth and a sneer fading from his lips, made his ever-memorable remark: “Sall!” he said, speaking in low, earnest voice; “'tis a muckle wumman.” Note:* It was this visit which figured in the Grammoch-town _Argus_ (local and radical) under the heading of “Alleged Wholesale Corruption by Tory Agents.” And that is why, on the following market day, Herbert Trotter, journalist, erstwhile gentleman, and Secretary of the Dale Trials, found himself trying to swim in the public horse-trough. “What? What be sayin', mon?” cried old Jonas, startled out of his usual apathy. M'Adam turned sharply on the old man. “I said the wumman wears a muckle hat!” he snapped. Blotted out as it was, the observation still remains--a tribute of honest admiration. Doubtless the Recording Angel did not pass it by. That one statement anent the gentle lady of the manor is the only personal remark ever credited to little M'Adam not born of malice and all uncharitableness. And that is why it is ever memorable. The little Scotsman with the sardonic face had been the tenant of the Grange these many years; yet he had never grown acclimatized to the land of the Southron. With his shrivelled body and weakly legs he looked among the sturdy, straight-limbed sons of the hill-country like some brown, wrinkled leaf holding its place midst a galaxy of green. And as he differed from them physically, so he did morally. He neither understood them nor attempted to. The North-country character was an unsolved mystery to him, and that after ten years' study. “One-half o' what ye say they doot, and they let ye see it; t'ither half they disbelieve, and they tell ye so,” he once said. And that explained his attitude toward them, and consequently theirs toward him. He stood entirely alone; a son of Hagar, mocking. His sharp, ill tongue was rarely still, and always bitter. There was hardly a man in the land, from Langholm How to the market-cross in Grammoch-town, but had at one time known its sting, endured it in silence--for they are slow of speech, these men of the fells and meres--and was nursing his resentment till a day should bring that chance which always comes. And when at the Sylvester Arms, on one of those rare occasions when M'Adam was not present, Tammas summed up the little man in that historic phrase of his, “When he's drunk he's wi'lent, and when he bain't he's wicious,” there was an applause to gratify the blasé heart of even Tammas Thornton.