‘Ye winna see mair o’ him this year or twa onygait, I’m thinkin! Gien ever ye get a scart o’ ’s pen, it’ll surprise me. But gien ever ye hae the chance, which may God forbid, tell him I said I had gien him his licks, and daured him to come and deny’t to my face. He winna du that, Phemy! He kens ower weel I wad jist gie him them again!’ ‘He wud kill ye, Kirsty! _You_ gie him his licks!’ ‘He micht kill me, but he’d hae a pairt o’ his licks first!--And noo gien ye dinna believe me I winna answer a single question mair ye put to me. I hae been tellin ye--no God’s trowth, it’s true, but the deevil’s--and it’s no use, for ye winna believe a word o’ ’t!’ Phemy rose up a pygmy Fury. ‘And ye laid han’ to cheek o’ that king o’ men, Kirsty Barclay? Lord, haud me ohn killt her! Little hauds me frae riven ye to bits wi’ my twa han’s!’ ‘I laidna han’ to cheek o’ Francie Gordon, Phemy; I jist throosh him wi’ his father’s ain ridin whup ’at my hert’s like to brak to think o’ ’t. I doobt he’ll carry the marks til’s grave!’ Kirsty broke into a convulsion of silent sobs and tears. ‘Kirsty Barclay, ye’re a deevil!’ cried Phemy in a hoarse whisper: she was spent with passion. The little creature stood before Kirsty, her hands clenched and shaking with rage, blue flashes darting about in her eyes. Kirsty, at once controlling the passion of her own heart, sat still as a statue, regarding her with a sad pity. A sparrow stood chattering at a big white brooding dove; and the dove sorrowed for the sparrow, but did not know how to help the fluttering thing. ‘Lord!’ cried Phemy, ‘I’ll be cursin a’ the warl’ and God himsel, gien I gang on this gait!--Eh, ye fause wuman!’ Kirsty sprang upon her at one bound from her seat, threw her arms round her so that she could not move hers, and sitting down with her on her lap, said-- ‘Phemy, gien I was yer mither, I wad gie ye yer licks for sayin what ye didna i’ yer hert believe! A’ the time ye was keepin company wi’ Francie Gordon, ye ken i’ yer ain sowl ye was never richt sure o’ him! And noo I tell ye plainly that, although I strack him times and times wi’ my whup--and saired him weel!--I div not believe him sae ill-contrived as ye wad gar me think him. Him and me was bairns thegither, and I ken the natur o’ him, and tak his pairt again ye, for, oot o’ pride and ambition, ye’re an enemy til him: I div not believe ever he promised to merry ye! He’s behaved ill eneuch wantin that--lattin a gowk o’ a lassie like you believe what ye likit, and him only carryin on wi’ ye for the ploy o’ ’t, haeing naething to du, and sick o’ his ain toom heid and still toomer hert; but a man’s word’s his word, and Francie’s no sae ill as your tale wud mak him! There, Phemy, I hae said my say!’ She loosened her arms. But Phemy lay still, and putting her arms round Kirsty’s neck, wept in a bitter silence. CHAPTER XX MUTUAL MINISTRATION