'It hings thegither tho',' said Peter Malloch, 'an' I'm sair misdoubtin' but things are na a' thegither as they suld be. An' that minds me, as I was gaun til Inverlyon no lang syne, we lichted frae the coach gaun doon the brae, an' wha suld be comin' up but Mester Brown. It maun hae been that verra day, for he had a bundle in's arms, an' says my neighbour to me, laughin'-like, it micht be a bairn, that i' the minister's arms. An' as for him he wadna forgather, like he may hae been blate, but juist gaed by wi' hardly the time o' day to throw til a dug. An' me the Convener o' the Deacons' Coort! I ance thocht him a gude young man, but he's verra pridefu'. An' he winna be guidet by them 'ats aulder an' mair experienced nor himsel'. An' pride ye ken comes afore destruction, an' a hauchty speerit afore a fa'. So says scripter. Pride's deadly sin, ye ken, an' wan sin brings on anither. I'm sair misdoubtin' but there may be some fundation. But it's terrible to think on. A minister o' the Free Protestin' Kirk o' Scotland, and _our_ minister--hiz 'at's corned out o' Egyp', leavin' kirk and steeple an' a' ahint us, intil the leeteral wilderness, wi' naething but a bit umbrelly belike to keep aff the ren an' the snaw. Hiz wha's praise is in all the churches, as Mester Dowlas tells us, for our persecuitions--to think _our_ minister suld gae wrang! My certie, we's cast out the unclean thing frae amang us, to perish like anither Aachan without the camp!' 'An' him sae young! an' sae gude to the puir folk!' said Mrs. Kilgour. 'I'se no believe the like o' him or ony ither minister, till it's pruived on him.' 'Ministers are but men, woman,' sighed Mrs. Boague, 'an' the flesh is weak. I'm misdoubtin' but it's an ower true tale.'