“Hob is no week-old bairn chicken, mother,” said I; “he will be five-and-thirty if he is a day.” “But our Hob--to be thinking o’ a lassie!” “At what age might ye have been married, mother?” I asked, knowing that I could turn her from thinking of Hob’s presumption and my own waygoing. “Me? I was married at seventeen, and your father scant a score. Faith, there was spunk in the countryside then. Noo a lass will be four-and-twenty before she gets an offer; aye, and not think hersel’ ayont the mark for the wedding-ring, when I had sons and dochters man and woman-muckle!” “Then,” said I, “that being so, ye will not be hard on Hob if he marries and settles himself down at Drumglass.” * * * * * My father clapped me on the shoulder. “God speed ye,” he said; “I need not tell ye to be noways feared. And if ye come to the bottom of your purse--well, your faither is no rich man. But there will be aye a bit of yellow siller for ye in the cupboard of Ardarroch.” I had meant to take my way past Earlstoun without calling. And with that intent it was in my mind to hold directly over the moor past Lochinvar. But when it came to the pinch I simply could not do it. So to the dear grey tower chin-deep among the woodlands I betook me once more. My eyes had been looking for the first glint of it over the tree tops for miles ere I came within sight of it. “There,” and “there,” so I said to myself, “under that white cloud, by the nick of that hill, where the woodland curls down, that is the place.” At last I arrived. “Quintin MacClellan, come your ways in. Welcome are ye as the smell o’ the supper brose,” cried Alexander Gordon, coming heartily across from the far angle of the courtyard at sight of me. “Whither away so travel-harnessed?” “To the Upper Ward,” said I, “to make a beginning on the widest minister’s charge in Scotland.” “You are, then, truly bent on leaving all and taking upon you the blue bonnet and the plaid of the minister of the Remnant?” “I have already done it,” said I, “burned my boats, emptied my house, sold my plenishing and bestial. And now with my scrip and staff I go forth, whither I know not--perchance to a hole in the hedge-root and the death of a dog.” “Tut, man,” cried Alexander Gordon, “‘tis not thus that the apostle of the Hill-folk, the bearer of their banner, should go forth. Bide at least this night with me, and I will set you up the waterside, aye, and fit you with a beast to ride on forbye.” “I thank you from my heart, Earlstoun. This is spoken like a true man and from the full heart. Only Alexander Gordon would offer as much. But I would begin as I must end if I am to be the poor man’s minister. I must not set out on my pilgrimage riding on the back of Earlstoun’s charger. I must tramp it--moss and mountain, dub and mire. Yet, friend of mine, I could not go without bidding you a kindly adieu.” “At least bide till the mistress and Mary can shake ye by the hand,” cried Alexander Gordon.