Mr. Soulis wasna weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’weary manse; an’ he ran the harder, an’ wet shoon, ower the burn, an’ up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a’ ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, and a bit feard as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; and there was Janet M’Clour before his een, wi’ her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to see him. And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidy grue. “Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?” “A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye ‘re no wise, minister. There’s nae black man in a’ Ba’weary.” But she didna speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a powny wi’ the bit in its moo. “Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.” And he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in his heid. “Hoots!” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minister,” an’ gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her. Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a’ his books. It’s a lang, laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin’ cauld in winter, an’ no very dry even in the top o’ the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, and thocht of a’ that had come an’ gane since he was in Ba’weary, an’ his hame, an’ the days when he was a bairn an’ ran daffin’ on the braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o’ the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words wouldnae come to him; an’ he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he couldnae mak’ nae mair o’ that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an’ the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles when he cam’ to himsel’ like a christened bairn and minded naething.