rench. The Deevil's Jock, as they called him, kept jumping, with his
arms outspread, from one place to another, as if to receive Kelpie's
charge; but when he saw her actually coming, in short, quick bounds,
straight to the trench, he was seized with terror, and, half paralyzed,
slipped as he turned to flee and rolled into the ditch, just in time to
see Kelpie fly over his head. His comrades scampered right and left, and
Malcolm, rather disgusted, took no notice of them.

A cart, loaded with their little all, the horse in the shafts, was
standing at Peter's door, but nobody was near it. Hardly had Malcolm
entered the close, however, when out rushed Annie, and heedless of
Kelpie's demonstrative repellence, reached up her hands like a child,
caught him by the arm while yet he was busied with his troublesome
charge, drew him down toward her and held him till, in spite of Kelpie,
she had kissed him again and again. "Eh, Ma'colm! eh, my lord!" she
said, "ye hae saved my faith. I kenned ye wad come."

"Haud yer tongue, Annie: I maunna be kenned," said Malcolm.

"There's nae danger. They'll tak it for sweirin'," said Annie, laughing
and crying both at once.

But next came Blue Peter, his youngest child in his arms.

"Eh, Peter, man! I'm bleythe to see ye," cried Malcolm. "Gie 's a grup
o' yer honest han'."

More than even the sight of his face, beaming with pleasure, more than
that grasp of the hand that would have squeezed the life out of a
polecat, was the sound of the mother-tongue from his lips. The cloud of
Peter's long distrust broke and vanished, and the sky of his soul was
straightway a celestial blue. He snatched his hand from Malcolm's,
walked back into the empty house, ran into the little closet off the
kitchen, bolted the door, fell on his knees in the void little sanctuary
that had of late been the scene of so many foiled attempts to lift up
his heart, and poured out speechless thanksgiving to the God of all
grace and consolation, who had given him back his friend, and that in
the time of his sore need. So true was his heart in its love that,
giving thanks for his friend, he forgot he was the marquis of Lossie,
before whom his enemy was but as a snail in the sun. When he rose from
his knees and went out again, his face shining and his eyes misty, his
wife was on the top of the cart, tying a rope across the cradle.

"Peter," said Malcolm, "ye was quite richt to gang, but I'm glaid they
didna lat ye."

"I wa