“I _was_ wondering what you meant by saying my father couldn’t take care of himself.” “He’s too good; he’s too good, Ranald. He believes in everybody. _I_ wouldn’t have kept that Kelpie in _my_ house half the time.” “Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her?” “I did once; but she told me to mind my own business. Kirsty snubs me because I laugh at her stories. But Kirsty is as good as gold, and I wouldn’t mind if she boxed my ears--as indeed she’s done--many’s the time.” “But what’s the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie?” “First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick.” “Then she mustn’t complain.” “Eppie’s was a lawful trick, though. The old women have been laying their old heads together--but to begin at the beginning: there has been for some time a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that the Kelpie never gives them an honest handful of meal when they go their rounds. But this was very hard to prove, and although they all suspected it, few of them were absolutely certain about it. So they resolved that some of them should go with empty bags. Every one of those found a full handful at the bottom. Still they were not satisfied. They said she was the one to take care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie resolved to go with something at the bottom of her bag to look like a good quantity of meal already gathered. The moment the door was closed behind her--that was last Saturday--she peeped into the bag. Not one grain of meal was to be discovered. That was why she passed you muttering to herself and looking so angry. Now it will never do that the manse, of all places, should be the one where the poor people are cheated of their dues. But we roust have yet better proof than this before we can say anything.” “Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey?” I asked. “Why does she do it, do you suppose? It’s not for the sake of saving my father’s meal, I should think.” “No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, flatters herself she is not stealing--only saving it off the poor, and so making a right to it for herself. I can’t help thinking that her being out that same night had something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to see old Betty?” “No, she doesn’t like her. I know that.” “I’m not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we’ll have a try. I think I can outwit her. She’s fair game, you know.” “How? What? Do tell me, Turkey,” I cried, right eagerly. “Not to-day. I will tell you by and by.” He got up and went about his work. CHAPTER XXVI Old John Jamieson As I returned to the house I met my father. “Well, Ranald, what are you about?” he said, in his usual gentle tone. “Nothing in particular, father,” I answered. “Well, I’m going to see an old man--John Jamieson--I don’t think you know him: he has not been able to come to church for a long time. They tell me he is dying. Would you like to go with me?” “Yes, father. But won’t you take Missy?” “Not if you will walk with me. It’s only about three miles.”