Behind Billy’s sensitiveness lay a story known to every one in the valley. A story of a long, long fight against odds between Billy and his bottle, in which the minister played a somewhat effective part. And another story, a sad one to Billy and to Billy’s mild little wife, a story of a diphtheria epidemic in the valley, of three children down with it one after another, with the mother in bed with a fourth newly born, of long watches shared by two desperate men, of which the minister was one and Billy the other, and of two graves in the churchyard near by. From the day those graves were closed Billy was “sensitive” upon any matter touching Donald Fraser however remotely. “’Is minister? ’Is minister?” cried Hatch, quite familiar with Billy’s story. “Look ’ee ’ere, Billy, don’t you go for to make me saigh wot I didn’t saigh. Wot’s ’is minister got to do with ’is ’at? Tell me that. An’ don’t you——” The little man’s indignation made him incoherent. “‘’Is Sacrament ’at,’ says you,” replied Bickford, attempting a dignified judicial calm. “’Is Sacrament ’at ’as to do wi’ ’is Sacrament, and ’is Sacrament wi’ ’is Church, and ’is Church wi’ ’is minister.” “Lor’-a-mercy, ’ear ’im! Why stop at ’is minister. Why not go on to ’is minister’s yeller dog?” fumed Hatch, highly incensed at being placed in an attitude of criticism toward Sandy’s minister. “’Oo’s a-talkin’ about ’is minister, I (h)ask?” “I (h)accept y’re apology, Sammy,” replied Billy, with gracious condescension, “and we will consider the subject closed. Good morning, Mr. Campbell. It is a rare fine Sunday morning for the Sacrament.” He went forward with hand outstretched in welcome, leaving his friend Hatch choking with unexpressed indignation. “Good morning, Mr. Bickford,” replied Sandy, an undersized Highlander dressed in his “blacks” and, as has been indicated, with a “plug” hat on his head, whose ancient style and well-worn nap proclaimed its long and honourable service. “It is indeed a glorious morning for the Sacrament, to such as are worthy to enjoy it.” The Highlander’s eyes were deep blue in colour and set deep in his head, under shaggy eyebrows. They were the eyes of a mystic, far looking, tender, yet with fire lurking in their depths. “Aye, for such as are worthy to partake,” he echoed with a sigh, as he passed to a place beside his friend, big John Carr, a handsome, slow-moving South Country Scot, where he stood lost in introspection. “I guess Sandy has the pip this morning,” said a tall young fellow, Tom Powers, with a clean-cut, clean-shaven brown face and humorous brown eyes. “I doot he’ll be better aifter the service. He has an unco’ low opeenion o’himsel’,” said John Carr in an aside to Powers. “But he’s nae sae bad, is Sandy.” “Oh, Sandy’s all right. He’s got his Sunday clothes on, and they depress him a bit. And no wonder. They do every fellow. Hello, here’s the Colonel and his democrat. Got a new coat of paint, eh? Sure sign of spring.”