“Have I not forbidden you to read novels? And yet you persist in even bringing your fictitious rubbish here! But you shall not defy my authority. You must be made an example of. Hold up your hand.” I obeyed. He stood to his feet and rained blow after blow, first on one hand, and then on the other. His face was livid with passion and he went on as if he altogether forgot that it was a thin, white-faced slip of a boy, and not a man, he was punishing. I bore the pain as long as I could; at last I gave one big sob and burst into a fit of weeping. The master ceased and, taking a step or two from his place, he hurled the forbidden book on the peats that were smouldering on the hearthstone. I watched my chance; when he returned to resume his seat I made a dash for the fireplace, snatched the volume from the flames that were already beginning to curl its boards, made for the door with the fleetness of a deer, and was down the road towards the river ere anyone could intercept me. I made for the “Pinkie” well which had a nice stone seat beside it, rested for a moment to recover my breath and review the situation, and was about to move on when I heard a gruff voice near me exclaim: “Hallo, ye scoonril, what mischief hae ye been aifter noo?” The voice was that of old Willie Scott, the stonemason, who was engaged in mending a gap in Miss Milne’s garden wall. He was an “Auld Licht” of the sternest kind, and was disliked by many of the young folks. To those who only knew him casually he was sarcastic and seemingly uncivil; but to his intimates Willie had many redeeming qualities. He and I were good friends, and so I was rather glad to see him at this juncture. I replied: “Oh, nae very muckle, Willie. The maister gae me a lickin’ for having ane o’ Walter Scott’s novels in my desk. He put it into the fire, but I snapped it out and ran off wi’t. The book wasna mine, Willie, sae I couldna let it burn.” “Aye, aye, and that’s the set o’t, is it? An’ what business had ye to be readin’ sic’ a book when ye should hae been at your tasks? I sair doot ye’re an ill loon, Alan. What’ll happen to ye the morn, think ye?” “Oh, I suppose I’ll get anither lickin’, but I can stand that sae lang as he doesna get a hand o’ George Graham’s book. Man, Willie, you should see Mrs. Graham’s library! She has all the Waverley Novels, as well as Dickens and Thackeray. George often let’s me hae a book to read.” Willie opened his eyes a bit wider and gave a low, prolonged whistle. “Aye, aye, and sae ye’re takin’ up wi’ that Prelatist, are ye? Ye micht as well turn Papist at ance when ye’re aboot it. I wonder what yer mither’ll think when she kens of her laddie keeping such company.” “Oh, ye needna complain, at ony rate. My mither kens that I often go to the Hilltown to see George, and she’s well enough pleased. Man, if ye only saw Mrs. Graham’s books! The sicht wad mak yer mooth water.” “Perfect trash--a lot o’ lees,” burst forth the old man.