’I hae telled ye,’ Mistress Tode cried, pausing a moment with her hand on her side, as if to keep command of herself, ’I hae telled ye, woman, that we only deal with kenned and authenticate folk in this hoose—no wi’ orra loons, that nane kens wha belangs them! And I wad hae ye ken also that I am no to be named a liar by the likes o you, Meg Dalrymple—me that has been keeper o’ the larder keys o’ this Earl’s castle for fifteen year, me that has had the outgiving o’ all plenishing, the power o’ down-sitting and on-putting, and never has been checked in a bodle’s worth. Gang hame, ye Canaanitish woman, and I doot na ye’ll find your brat safe in the town’s bridewell. It will learn ye to bide from decent folk’s houses, making such a cry about your wastrel runnagates.’ ’Keep your ill tongue for that disjaskit, ill-put-thegither rachle o’ banes that ye hae for guidman,’ cried the widow Dalrymple. ’Weel do I ken that ye hae my bairn hidden awa’ somegate amang ye. Sic a trade as has been hauden wi’ the puir bit laddie for carryin’ a letter to the Laird o’ Auchendrayne. An’ the like o’ you to stand in my road, Tode woman, you that is weel kenned in sax pairishes for an ill-tongued gipsy. I’ll hae ye proclaimed at the market cross, a lord’s cook though ye be, gin ye dinna gie me hame my bairn wi’ me!’ ’Na,’ said Mistress Tode, more quietly, ’an’ you’ll no. Ye’ll e’en ask my pardon and gang quietly away to your hame by yoursel. ’And wha is gaun to gar me to that?’ said Meg Dalrymple. ’Just me and this bonny wee bit mannikie here,’ said Mistress Thomas Tode, turning round unexpectedly and catching the Dominie Mure by the arm. She pushed him forward and clapped him in a knowing way on the shoulder. ’Just this decent snod bit mannikie!’ she said again. ’Woman,’ said the Dominie, very indignantly, ’what have I to do with your quarrels and tongue-thrashings?’ ’Just this, honest man,’ said Mistress Tode; ’ye keep the Session records o’ the parish o’ Maybole. And if this ill-tongued woman disna gang hame doucely and quaitly, ye are the man that is going to gie me a sicht and extract o’ them, under date fourteenth o’ Januar, fifteen hundred and aughty years.’ The stroke told. Meg Dalrymple grew silent. The anger faded out of her face suddenly as the shining on wet sea sand when you lift your foot. The warlike crook of her elbow flattened to a droop. For the Session records of the Kirk of Scotland are the nearest thing to the Books of the Recording Angel, and the opening of them is a little Day of Judgment to half the parish. But we could not let the poor woman depart in this fashion. I stepped to the door from behind the pillar where I had been listening for the ending of the fray. ’Mistress Dalrymple,’ I said, very quietly, ’your lad has never come to Cassillis at all. We came here to meet him. He must have lost his way.’