“To think,” cried my mother, “that the laddie we sent so proudly to the college should shut himself out of manse and kirk, and tak’ to the moors and mosses as if the auld persecuting days were back again.” “It is in a guid cause,” said my father, quieting her as best he could. “I daresay,” said my mother, “but the lad will get mony a wet fit and weary mile if he ministers to the Hill-folk. Aye, and mony a sair heart to please them.” “Fear ye not for Quintin,” said my father, to soothe her, “for if it comes to dourness the Lord pity them that try to overcrow our Quintin.” I made no farewell round of the kindly, faithful folk of Balmaghie. My heart would have had too many breakings. Besides, I promised myself that, when I took up the pilgrim’s staff and ministered to the remnant scattered abroad, seeking no reward, I should often be glad of a night’s shelter at Drumglass or Cullenoch. Nevertheless, for all my brave resolves, it was with an overweighted heart that I passed the Black Water at the Tornorrach fords with my staff in my hand. I had as it were come over in two bands, with Hob driving the beasts for the glebe, and I the house furniture upon a car or trail cart. Now I left the parish poorer than I entered it. I knew not so much as where I would sleep that night. I had ten pounds in my pocket, and when that was done--well, I would surely not be worse off than the King’s Blue Gown. I was to minister to a scattered people, mostly of the poorest. But at the worst I was sure of an inglenook, a bed in the stable-loft, and a porringer of brose at morn and e’en anywhere in Scotland. And I am sure that ofttimes the Galilean fishermen had not so much. My mother threw her arms about my neck. “O laddie, laddie, ye are ganging far awa on a rough road and a lonely. Guid kens if your auld mither will ever look on your face again. Quintin, this is a sair heartbreak. But I ken I hae mysel’ to thank for it. I bred ye to the Hill-folks’ ways mysel’. It was your ain mither that took ye in her arms to the sweet conventicles on the green bosom of Cairnsmuir, that delectable mountain. I, even I, had ye baptized at the Holy Linn by guid Maister Semple, and never a whinge or a greet did ye gae when he stappit ye into the thickest o’ the jaw.” And the remembrance seemed in part to reconcile my mother to the stern Cameronian ministry I was about to take up. “And what stipend are they promising ye?” she said, presently, after she had thought the matter over. “Nothing!” I answered, calmly. “Nocht ava’--no a bawbee--and a’ that siller spent on your colleging.” Then my mother’s mind took a new tack. “And what will puir Hob be gaun to do, puir fellow? He has had nae ither thocht than you since ever he was a laddie.” “Faith,” said I, smiling back at her, “I am thinking that now at last he has some other thought in his mind.” My mother fell back a step. “No a lassie!” she cried, “a laddie like him.”