the Minister, bethinking him of the stained-glass
window, 'why, that's a small fortune.'

''Tis that,' replied Tam complacently, stretching a leg to the hearth,
'but pedigree blood's worth the money.' He caressed a little imperial he
had grown since he left the north, stretched out his other leg to the
fire, and with a smile of satisfaction that seemed to ooze from his
vintage cheeks, continued to talk of his own pedigree.

'Yes, blood's the thing,' he said, 'for beasts and humans alike. Why,
take my family--every one knows the clan of Elliot's been on the Border
for centuries, and one of my forebears was married on a Stuart lass, so
likely enough I may have a bit royal blood i' my veins, even though it
comes from the wrong side o' the blanket.'

Here an ancient, bearded shepherd--an elder of the kirk--with a tongue
of caustic, Ringan by name, who was sitting behind the Minister, winked
derisively at the company and muttered _sotto voce_, 'He's forgot aal
the little yins. I mind fine his granddam--the merry-begot of a
pitman's lass doon the water.' The Minister himself could not resist a
smile at this, and the visitor added somewhat hastily, 'Yet I say wi'
Robbie Burns--"_a man's a man for a' that_." Have another touch o' this
mountain dew,' he cried magnanimously to the scornful herd.

'Na, na, I'm awa,' replied the ancient herd, rising as he spoke; 'it's
gettin' late, an' I dinna want to run the risk o' meetin' wi' "Parcy" on
my way hame.'[1]

'Parcy!' exclaimed the visitor, raising himself in surprise from his
arm-chair. 'Parcy, the ghost o' the murdered mosstrooper, d' ye mean,
that the old wives talked of? D' ye mean to tell me ye still believe in
ghosts up here?'

'Why not?' said the Minister. ''Tis good Christian doctrine to believe
in departed spirits.'

'We don't believe in 'em in the towns,' retorted Elliot scornfully, 'so
why should we in the country?'

'Will ye put your faith, or lack o't, tae the proof?' here inquired the
caustic ancient herd. 'I'se haud ye a wager ye winna walk doon the burn
the morrow nicht at the deid hour, past the stane where "Parcy" was
slain, and up on beyond the kirkyaird, and on tae the manse. Maybe it's
a mile, an' to-morrow's the nicht o' Hallow E'en when the deid walk.
Here's my shilling against whatever ye like to lay doon,' and as the
ancient spoke he drew a long, thin leathern purse from his trouser
pocket, plucked forth a shilling, and set it down with a bang on the