"I'm no greeting very sair," he answered, turning his head from her that a woman might not see his tears. "I'm no greeting so sair but what I grat sairer when my mither died." "When did she die?" Babbie inquired. "Lang syne," he answered, still with averted face. "What is your name?" "Micah is my name. Rob Dow's my father." "And have you no brothers nor sisters?" asked Babbie, with a fellow-feeling for him. "No, juist my father," he said. "You should be the better laddie to him then. Did your mither no tell you to be that afore she died?" "Ay," he answered, "she telled me ay to hide the bottle frae him when I could get haed o't. She took me into the bed to make me promise that, and syne she died." "Does your father drina?" "He hauds mair than ony other man in Thrums," Micah replied, almost proudly. "And he strikes you?" Babbie asked, compassionately. "That's a lie," retorted the boy, fiercely. "Leastwise, he doesna strike me except when he's mortal, and syne I can jouk him." "What are you doing there?" "I'm wishing. It's a wishing stane." "You are wishing your father wouldna drink." "No, I'm no," answered Micah. "There was a lang time he didna drink, but the woman has sent him to it again. It's about her I'm wishing. I'm wishing she was in hell." "What woman is it?" asked Babbie, shuddering. "I dinna ken," Micah said, "but she's an ill ane." "Did you never see her at your father's house?" "Na; if he could get grip o' her he would break her ower his knee. I hearken to him saying that, when he's wild. He says she should be burned for a witch." "But if he hates her," asked Babbie, "how can she have sic power ower him?" "It's no him that she has haud o'," replied Micah, still looking away from her. "Wha is it then?" "It's Mr. Dishart." Babbie was struck as if by an arrow from the wood. It was so unexpected that she gave a cry, and then for the first time Micah looked at her. "How should that send your father to the drink?" she asked, with an effort. "Because my father's michty fond o' him," answered Micah, staring strangely at her; "and when the folk ken about the woman, they'll stane the minister out o' Thrums." The wood faded for a moment from the Egyptian's sight. When it came back, the boy had slid off the Standing Stone and was stealing away. "Why do you run frae me?" Babbie asked, pathetically. "I'm fleid at you," he gasped, coming to a standstill at a safe distance: "you're the woman!" Babbie cowered before her little judge, and he drew nearer her slowly. "What makes you think that?" she said. It was a curious time for Babbie's beauty to be paid its most princely compliment. [Illustration: "I'M WISHING SHE WAS IN HELL."]