e better by following up their kindness and seeing him out of the
village, for he was now planted with his back to a railing, brandishing
his stick and furiously challenging the whole mob. So far as concerned
him the mischief ended by his overbalancing to aim a vicious blow at an
urchin, and crashing down upon the kerb, where he lay and groaned, while
the blood flowed from an ugly cut across the eyebrow.

For a while the crowd stood about him in some dismay. A few were for
carrying him back to the public-house; but at some evil prompting a voice
cried out, "Take him to the widow Johnstone's! A witch should know how to
deal with her sib, the black man." I believe so godless a jest would
never have been played, had not the cottage stood handy and (as one may
say) closer than their better thoughts. But certain it is that they
hoisted the poor creature and bore him into Mrs. Johnstone's garden, and
began to fling handfuls of gravel at the upper windows, where a light was
burning.

At the noise of it against the pane Mrs. Johnstone, who was bending over
the bedroom fire and heating milk for her supper, let the pan fall from
her hand. For the moment Kirstie thought she would swoon. But helping
her to a seat in the armchair, the brave lass bade her be comforted--it
could be naught but some roystering drunkard--and herself went downstairs
and unbarred the door. At the sight of her--so frail a girl--quietly
confronting them with a demand to know their business, the crowd fell back
a step or two, and in that space of time by God's providence arrived Peter
Lawler, the constable, a very religious man, who gave the ringleaders some
advice and warning they were not likely to forget. Being by this made
heartily ashamed of themselves, they obeyed his order to pick up the man
from the doorstep, where he lay at Kirstie's feet, and carry him back to
the "Leaping Fish;" and so slunk out of the garden.

When all were gone Kirstie closed and bolted the door and returned
upstairs to her mistress, whom she found sitting in her chair and
listening intently.

"Who was it?" she demanded.

"Oh, nothing to trouble us, ma'am; but just a poor wandering blackamoor I
met in the street to-day. The people, it seems, were bringing him here by
mistake."

"A blackamoor!" cried Mrs. Johnstone, gasping. "A blackamoor!"

Now Kirstie was for running downstairs again to fetch some milk in place
of what was spilt, but at the sound of the woman's