It was in these circumstances that the Glen fell back on Kirsty Stewart for medical aid, with the Kildrummie doctor as a last resort, and Kirsty covered her name with glory for a generation. She had always had some reputation as a practitioner of ability and experience--being learned in herbs, and the last of her folk; but her admirers were themselves astonished at the insight she showed in the mysterious illness of Peter Macintosh, and her very detractors could only insinuate that her credit ended with diagnosis. His case had a certain distinction from the first day he complained, and we remembered afterwards that it was never described as a “whup.” During the first week even there was a vague impression in the Glen, conveyed by an accent, that Peter was the subject of a dispensation, and the kirk-yard was full of chastened curiosity. “What's this that 's wrang wi' Peter Macintosh, Whinnie?” broke out Drumsheugh, with a certain magisterial authority. “Ye live near him, and sud hae the richts o't. As for the fouk doon bye, ye can get naethin' oot o' them; the smith juist shook his head twa nichts syne, as if he wes at a beerial.” “Ye needna speir at me, Drumsheugh,” responded Whinnie, with solemnity, “for a' ken nae mair than ye dae yersel, though oor fields mairch and we 've aye been neeburly.” “Losh keep 's, ye surely can tell us whar it 's catchit Peter; is 't in his head or his heels? is he gaein' aboot or hes he ta'en tae his bed? did ye no see him?” said Drumsheugh severely. “Ou aye, a' saw him, gin that be onything; but ye canna get muckle oot o' Peter at the best, and he 's clean past speakin' noo. “He wes sittin' in his chair afore the door; an' a' he said wes, 'This is an awfu' business, Whinnie,' and he wud dance in his seat for maybe twa meenuts. 'What 's ailin' ye, Peter?' a' askit. 'A red-het ploo iron on ma back,' says he, an' it gied me a grue tae hear him.” “Mercy on 's, neeburs,” interrupted Hillocks, “this is no cannie.” “It's no his briest,” pursued Whinnie, “for he hesna got a hoast; an' it's no a stroke, whatever it be, for he 's aye on the motion; an' it 's no his inside; but in or oot, Peter 's a waesome sicht,” and Whinnie's manner greatly impressed the fathers. Leezbeth went up on Monday, as a commissioner from Drumsheugh, and that masterful woman made no doubt that she would unravel the mystery; but she was distinctly awed by Mrs. McIntosh s tone, which was a fine blend of anxiety and importance. “Hoo are ye, Leezbeth, an' hoo's Drumsheugh? There's threatenin' tae be a scoorie, but it 'ill maybe haud up till the aifternoon. Wull ye come in tae the kitchen the day? The gude man's no hansel' the noo, and he's sittin' ben the hoose.” “That's what a' cam' aboot,” said Leezbeth, rebelling against the solemnity of the atmosphere; “we heard doon bye that he wes sober (ill), an' the maister's aff tae Dunleith, and cudna get up tae speir for him. What's the natur' o' the tribble? Wes t sudden?”