cky if they were not sent flying altogether.

But all this got us over the ground pretty quick, and we were at old
Caleb Fergusson's before we knew it. Then, just as we were going into
the stackyard I remembered that old Caleb was a Presbyterian, and of
the worst and toughest kind--Free Kirk elder right through to the back
seam of his coat. So I asked curate how that was, and how he
reconciled helping old Caleb with his conscience and all that he had
been drilling into me.

But Mr. Ablethorpe only said, "Caleb Fergusson is a Presbyterian, it is
true, and very obstinate and blinded. But he has a farm at too dear a
rent, and has lost the only son who helped him in the working of it.
So I go sometimes to give him a hand."

It was not a very logical explanation after what he had just been
unlading into me. But all the same I liked him the better for
it--jolly well, too.

We found Caleb just at the end of stacking his meadow hay, and very
testy. He had his old wife out to help him. She was tottering on the
edge of a rick, half-way up, and all the other help he had was a small
boy grandson, whom he was making sorry that he had ever been born. I
thought Caleb would have been glad to see us, and so I dare say he was.
But his crusty Scotchness would not let him show it. Show it? No fear.

He let Mr. Ablethorpe take his fork, it is true, and ordered down his
wife from the stack with the grumble that she had left "the hale affair
as saft as saps!"

Then he turned and rated the curate for not coming earlier, if he meant
to be any use.

"But it's just like you English Kirkers," he said. "Ye are at the fore
wi' your chants and vain ceremonies, but when it comes to the halesome
milk o' the Word--faith, but your coo's dry!"

I stood aghast. I expected such a volley from the fervid curate as
would sweep the daring old man off the shafts of his red farm cart.
But I did not know Mr. Ablethorpe yet.

"I am sorry, Caleb," he said meekly; "I meant to come earlier, but I
had a few calls to make and a service to take----"

"Service, quo' he," snorted the old Free Kirker; "the rags o' Rome!"

"And besides," continued the curate, without troubling himself with the
taunt, "there was so heavy a dew this morning that I did not think you
would be leading till the afternoon!"

"Nae mair we wad, if Providence had left us the means o' waitin' till
the hay was decently won. But what can a puir auld bereaved couple
dae, hirplin