g
from the black, smoked beam in the corner. Kit had cause to remember the
occasion. Ever since, she had cast it up to him. She was a master at
casting up, as her husband knew. But Kit was used to it, and he did not
care. A thick stick was all that he cared for, and that only for three
minutes; but he minded when Mistress MacWalter abused his mother, who
was dead.

Kit Kennedy made for the front door, direct from the foot of the ladder.
His aunt raised herself on one elbow in bed, to assure herself that he
did not go into the kitchen. She heard the click of the bolt shot back,
and the stir of the dogs as Tweed and Tyke rose from the fireside to
follow him. There was still a little red gleaming between the bars, and
Kit would have liked to go in and warm his toes on the hearthstone. But
he knew that his aunt was listening. He was going thirteen, and big for
his age, so he wasted no pity on himself, but opened the door and went
out. Self-pity is bad at any time. It is fatal at thirteen.

At the door one of the dogs stopped, sniffed the keen frosty air, turned
quietly, and went back to the hearthstone. That was Tweed. But Tyke was
out rolling in the snow when Kit Kennedy shut the door.

Then his aunt went to sleep. She knew that Kit Kennedy did his work, and
that there would be no cause to complain. But she meant to complain all
the same. He was a lazy, deceitful hound, an encumbrance, and an
interloper among her bairns.

Kit slapped his long arms against his sides. He stood beneath his aunt's
window, and crowed so like a cock that Mistress Mac Walter jumped out of
her bed.

"Save us!" she said. "What's that beast doin' there at this time in the
mornin'?"

She got out of bed to look; but she could see nothing, certainly not
Kit. But Kit saw her, as she stood shivering at the window in her
night-gear. Kit hoped that her legs were cold. This was his revenge. He
was a revengeful boy.

As for himself, he was as warm as toast. The stars tingled above with
frost. The moon lay over on her back and yawned still more ungracefully.
She seemed more tired than ever.

Kit had an idea. He stopped and cried up at her--

"Get up, ye lazy guid-for-naething! I'll come wi' a stick to ye!"

But the moon did not come down. On the contrary, she made no sign. Kit
laughed. He had to stop in the snow to do it. The imitation of his aunt
pleased him. He fancied himself climbing up a rung-ladder to the moon,
with a broomstick in his hand