'An' it's little fireside me an' Tibbie's like tae hae gin ye haud back muckle langer! I hae na claes eneugh to keep her warm, an' she hasna strength to tak' wark, an' hoo can she get her strength on sowans an' kirn-milk? An' that's a' I hae to gie her. Ye maun keep yer wife, Joseph, e'en gin ye dinna bide wi' her.' 'An' hoo's a man to gather the bawbees, gin he's payin' them awa faster nor they come?' '_Ye_ ken that, Joseph; an' I'm thinkin' it's a denty pose ye hae hidden awa in some auld hugger, an' hae na the heart to spend. We a' ken ye for a hard thrifty body 'at winna spend yer ain, gin ye can finger ither folk's.' Ye're hard on me, Luckie, but I'se do what I can. I hae nae siller in my pouch the day but a bawbee for the plate, seein' it's Sawbith, but I'll tell ye what I wull do, speak to the minister. An' he's the gude man wi' the free haund and the saft heid. Gin ye getna a' ye need out o' _him_, yer tongue winna wag sae souple, as I hae fand it can this hour back.' And here, to avoid rejoinder he ran down the slope and took his place demurely on a stool by the tent to await the conclusion of the exercises. CHAPTER IX. _THE BABY_. The moorland overhanging the scene of the 'exercises' was always dotted over at their conclusion, with straggling companies of the worshippers returning home. At each branching of paths they would separate and change again to break up and separate further at fresh junctions, till at length the whole assemblage had dissipated itself over the extensive tract and disappeared. The air freshened by a breeze was so warm and bright that it tempted to linger in friendly gossip, especially those whose week spent in some remote nook among the hills brought never a stranger to their door or a scrap of news. Some of the villagers, too, chose the moor as a roundabout way home, where they would meet more acquaintances than on the hot and dusty road, and while obtaining the air and exercise, avoid the sinfulness or disrepute of taking a walk upon the Sabbath day. Those from a distance had brought refreshments, and were now seated in the neighbourhood of some clear spring discussing their simple meal of scones and cheese and hard boiled eggs. Seated in such a group were old Angus Kilgour, crofter, and Stephen Boague, shepherd, with their respective wives and families. Boague's offspring were three tow headed children who played noisily with a couple of dogs till their father interfered and bade them 'mind it was the Sabbath-day,' and called the dogs away. The young Kilgours were older, a big lad who carried a basket for his mother, a couple of girls competing, it seemed, for the favourable notice of a youth between them, a not unwilling captive to their charms, but still uncertain to which he should surrender, and another daughter whose tardy arrival was delaying the family repast.