‘For the puir idiot hasna the sense to ken what’s wantit o’ him!’ supplemented Steenie, with a laugh almost merry. ‘Daur ye,’ cried his mother indignantly, ‘mint at sic a word and my bairn thegither? He’s my bonny man!’ ‘Na, mother, na! _He’s_ the bonny man at wha’s feet I sall ae day sit, clothed and i’ my richt min’. He _is_ the bonny man!’ ‘Thank the Lord,’ continued his mother, still harping on the outrage of such as called her child an idiot, ‘’at ye’re no an orphan--’at there’s three o’ ’s to tak yer part!’ ‘Naebody can be an orphan,’ said Steenie, ‘sae lang’s God’s nae deid.’ ‘Lord, and they ca’ ye an idiot, div they!’ exclaimed Marion Barclay. ‘--Weel, be ye or no, ye’re ane o’ the babes in wha’s mooth he perfecteth praise!’ ‘He’ll du that some day, maybe!’ answered Steenie. ‘But! eh, Steenie,’ pursued his mother, ‘ye winna gang the nicht!’ ‘Mother,’ he answered, ‘ye dinna ken, nor yet do I, what to mak o’ me--what wits I hae, and what wits I haena; but this ye’ll alloo, that, for onything ye ken, the bonny man may be cryin upon me to gang efter some puir little yowie o’ his, oot her lane i’ the storm the nicht!’ With these words he walked gently from the kitchen, his dog following him. A terrible blast rushed right into the fire when he opened the door. But he shut it behind him easily, and his mother comforted herself that she had known him out in worse weather. Kirsty entered a moment after, and when her father came in from the loft he called his workshop, they had their tea, and sat round the fire after it, peacefully talking, a little troubled, but nowise uneasy that their Steenie, the darling of them all, was away on the Horn: he knew every foot of its sides better than the collie who, a moment ago asleep before the fire, was now following at his master’s heel. The wind, which had fallen immediately after the second gust as after the first, now began to blow with gathering force, and it took Steenie much longer than usual to make his way over height and hollow from his father’s house to his own. But he was in no hurry, not knowing where he was wanted. I do not think he met any angels as he went, but it was a pleasure to think they might be about somewhere, for they were sorry for his heavy feet, and always greeted him kindly. Not that they ever spoke to him, he said, but they always made a friendly gesture--nodding a stately head, waving a strong hand, or sending him a waft of cool air as they went by, a waft that would come to him through the fiercest hurricane as well as through the stillest calm.