tirring on the floor, a creaking of the ancient
joists. It was Kit putting on his clothes. He always knew where each
article lay--dark or shine, it made no matter to him. He had not an
embarrassment of apparel. He had a suit for wearing, and his "other
clothes." These latter were, however, now too small for him, and so he
could not go to the kirk at Duntochar. But his aunt had laid them aside
for her son Rob, a growing lad. She was a thoughtful, provident woman.

"Be gettin' doon the stair, my man, and look slippy," cried his aunt, as
a parting shot, "and see carefully to the kye. It'll be as weel for ye."

Kit had on his trousers by this time. His waistcoat followed. But before
he put on his coat he knelt down to say his prayer. He had promised his
mother to say it then. If he put on his coat he was apt to forget, in
his haste to get out-of-doors where the beasts were friendly. So between
his waistcoat and his coat he prayed. The angels were up at the time,
and they heard, and went and told the Father who hears prayer. They said
that in a garret at a hill-farm a boy was praying with his knees in a
snow-drift--a boy without father or mother.

"Ye lazy guid-for-naething! Gin ye are no' doon the stairs in three
meenits, no' a drap o' porridge or a sup o' milk shall ye get the day!"

So Kit got on his feet, and made a queer little shuffling noise with
them, to induce his aunt to think that he was bestirring himself. So
that is the way he had to finish his prayers--on his feet, shuffling and
dancing a break-down. The angels saw, and smiled. But they took it to
the Father, just the same as if Kit Kennedy had been in church. All
save one, who dropped something that might have been a pearl and might
have been a tear. Then he also went within the inner court, and told
that which he had seen.

But to Kit there was nothing to grumble about. He was pleased, if any
one was. His clogs did not let in the snow. His coat was rough, but
warm. If any one was well off, and knew it, it was Kit Kennedy.

So he came down-stairs, if stairs they could be called that were but the
rounds of a ladder. His aunt heard him.

"Keep awa' frae the kitchen, ye thievin' loon! There's nocht there for
ye--takin' the bairns' meat afore they're up!"

But Kit was not hungry, which, in the circumstances, was as well.
Mistress MacWalter had caught him red-handed on one occasion. He was
taking a bit of hard oatcake out of the basket of "farles" which swun