der than herself. A wonderful merry pair,
they seemed; and when Francie had crawled out of the hag, he had a great
deal to consider in his mind. It was possible they were all fallen in
error about Mr. Haddo, he reflected,--having seen him so tender with
Montroymont, and so kind and playful with the lass Janet; and he had a
temptation to go out of his road and question her herself upon the
matter. But he had a strong spirit of duty on him; and plodded on
instead over the braes till he came near the House of Cairngorm. There,
in a hollow place, by the burnside that was shaded by some birks, he was
aware of a barefoot boy, perhaps a matter of three years older than
himself. The two approached with the precautions of a pair of strange
dogs, looking at each other queerly.

"It's ill weather on the hills," said the stranger, giving the
watchword.

"For a season," said Francie, "but the Lord will appear."

"Richt," said the barefoot boy; "wha're ye frae?"

"The Leddy Montroymont," says Francie.

"Ha'e, then!" says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they
stood and looked at each other again. "It's unco' het," said the boy.

"Dooms het," says Francie.

"What do they ca' ye?" says the other.

"Francie," says he. "I'm young Montroymont. They ca' me Heathercat."

"I'm Jock Crozer," said the boy. And there was another pause, while each
rolled a stone under his foot.

"Cast your jaiket and I'll fecht ye for a bawbee," cried the elder boy
with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket.

"Na, I have nae time the now," said Francie, with a sharp thrill of
alarm, because Crozer was much the heavier boy.

"Ye're feared. Heathercat indeed!" said Crozer, for among this infantile
army of spies and messengers, the fame of Crozer had gone forth and was
resented by his rivals. And with that they separated.

On his way home Francie was a good deal occupied with the recollection
of this untoward incident. The challenge had been fairly offered and
basely refused: the tale would be carried all over the country, and the
lustre of the name of Heathercat be dimmed. But the scene between Curate
Haddo and Janet M'Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was
still puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were
said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach
so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting
with her back to him, minding