Bearing her as she best could in one arm, she ran with her toward Tiltowie until she reached a place where the road was bordered by a more practicable slope; there she took to the moorland, and made for Corbyknowe. Her resolve had been from the first, if Phemy would not listen, to carry her, like the unmanageable child she was, home to the mother whose voice had always been to herself the oracle of God. It was in a loving embrace, though hardly a comfortable one, and to a heart full of pity, that she pressed the poor little runaway lamb: her mother was God’s vicar for all in trouble: she would bring the child to reason! Her heart beating mightily with love and labour, she waded through the heather, hurrying along the moor. It was a strange abduction; but Kirsty was divinely simple, and that way strange. Not until they were out of sight of the road did she set her down. ‘Noo, Phemy,’ she said, panting as she spoke, ‘haud yer tongue like a guid lassie, and come awa upo’ yer ain feet.’ Phemy took at once to her heels and her throat, and ran shrieking back toward the road, with Kirsty after her like a grayhound. Phemy had for some time given up struggling and trying to shriek, and was therefore in better breath than Kirsty whose lungs were pumping hard, but she had not a chance with her, for there was more muscle in one of Kirsty’s legs than in Phemy’s whole body. In a moment she had her in her arms again, and so fast that she could not even kick. She gave way and burst into tears. Kirsty relaxed her hold. ‘What are you gaein to du wi’ me?’ sobbed Phemy. ‘I’m takin ye to the best place I ken--hame to my mother,’ answered Kirsty, striding on for home-heaven as straight as she could go. ‘I winna gang!’ cried Phemy, whose Scotch had returned with her tears. ‘Ye _are_ gaein,’ returned Kirsty dryly; ‘--at least I’m takin ye, and that’s neist best.’ ‘What for? I never did ye an ill turn ’at I ken o’!’ said Phemy, and burst afresh into tears of self-pity and sense of wrong. ‘Na, my bonny doo,’ answered Kirsty, ‘ye never did me ony ill turn! It wasna in ye. But that’s the less rizzon ’at I sudna du you a guid ane. And yer father has been like the Bountiful himsel to me! It’s no muckle I can du for you or for him, but there’s ae thing I’m set upo’, and that’s haudin ye frae Francie Gordon the nicht. He’ll be awa the morn!’ ‘Wha tellt ye that?’ returned Phemy with a start. ‘Jist yer ain aunt, honest woman!’ answered Kirsty, ‘and sair she grat as she telled me, but it wasna at his gaein!’ ‘She micht hae held the tongue o’ her till he was gane! What was there to greit aboot!’ ‘Maybe she thocht o’ her sister’s bairn in a tribble ’at silence wadna hide!’ answered Kirsty. ‘Ye haena a notion, lassie, what ye’re duin wi’ yersel! But my mither ’ll lat ye ken, sae that ye gangna blinlins intil the tod’s hole.’ ‘Ye dinna ken Frank, or ye wudna speyk o’ ’im that gait!’ ‘I ken him ower weel to trust you til him.’