great one." Thus had greatness been thrust upon him. He was seven, and
he had lived at The Rigs since he was two. He was a handsome child with
an almost uncanny charm of manner, and a gift of make-believe that made
his days one long excitement.

He now stood like some "grave Tyrian trader" on the table turned upside
down that was his raft, as serious and intent as if it had been the navy
of Tarshish bringing Solomon gold and silver, ivory and apes and
peacocks. With one arm he clutched the cat and assured that unwilling
voyager, "You're on the dangerous sea, me old puss. You don't want to be
drowned, do you?" The cat struggled and scratched. "Then go--to your
doom!"

He clasped his hands behind him in a Napoleonic manner and stood
gloomily watching the unembarrassed progress of the cat across the
carpet, while Peter (a fox-terrier, and the wickedest dog in Priorsford)
crushed against his legs to show how faithful he was compared to any
kind of cat.

"Haven't you finished eating yet, Jock?" Jean asked. "Here is Mrs.
M'Cosh for the tea-things."

The only servant The Rigs possessed was a middle-aged woman, the widow
of one Andrew M'Cosh, a Clyde riveter, who had drifted from her native
city of Glasgow to Priorsford. She had a sweet, worn face, and a neat
cap with a black velvet bow in front.

Jock rose from the table reluctantly, and was at once hailed by the Mhor
and invited on to the raft.

Jock hesitated, but he was the soul of good nature. "Well, only for five
minutes, remember. I've a lot of lessons to-night." He sat down on the
upturned table, his legs sprawling on the carpet, and hummed "Tom
Bowling," but the Mhor leaned from his post as steersman and said
gravely, "Don't dangle your legs, Jock; there are sharks in these
waters." So Jock obediently crumpled his legs until his chin rested on
his knees.

Mrs. M'Cosh piled the tea-things on a tray and folded the cloth. "Ay,
Peter," she said, catching sight of that notorious character, "ye look
real good, but I wis hearin' ye were efter the sheep again the day."

Peter turned away his head as if deeply shocked at the accusation, and
Mrs. M'Cosh, with the tea-cloth over her arm, regarded him with an
indulgent smile. She had infinite tolerance for Peter's shortcomings.

"Peter was kinna late last night," she would say, as if referring to an
erring husband, "an' I juist sat up for him." She had also infinite
leisure. It was no use Jean trying to hurry the work