diates the world. Of that high power there is
no evidence in the essay before me. To be sure there was little occasion
for its use."

Young Gourlay's thermometer went down.

"Indeed," said Aquinas, "there's a curious want of bigness in the
sketch--no large nobility of phrase. It is written in gaspy little
sentences, and each sentence begins 'and'--'and'--'and,' like a
schoolboy's narrative. It's as if a number of impressions had seized the
writer's mind, which he jotted down hurriedly, lest they should escape
him. But, just because it's so little wordy, it gets the effect of the
thing--faith, sirs, it's right on to the end of it every time! The
writing of some folk is nothing but a froth of words--lucky if it
glistens without, like a blobber of iridescent foam. But in this sketch
there's a perception at the back of every sentence. It displays, indeed,
too nervous a sense of the external world."

"Name, name!" cried the students, who were being deliberately worked by
Tam to a high pitch of curiosity.

"I would strongly impress on the writer," said the shepherd, heedless of
his bleating sheep--"I would strongly impress on the writer to set
himself down for a spell of real, hard, solid, and deliberate thought.
That almost morbid perception, with philosophy to back it, might create
an opulent and vivid mind. Without philosophy it would simply be a
curse. With philosophy it would bring thought the material to work on.
Without philosophy it would simply distract and irritate the mind."

"Name, name!" cried the fellows.

"The winner of the Raeburn," said Thomas Aquinas, "is Mr. John Gourlay."

* * * * *

Gourlay and his friends made for the nearest public-house. The
occasion, they thought, justified a drink. The others chaffed Gourlay
about Tam's advice.

"You know, Jack," said Gillespie, mimicking the sage, "what you have got
to do next summer is to set yourself down for a spell of real, hard,
solid, and deliberate thought. That was Tam's advice, you know."

"Him and his advice!" said Gourlay.

CHAPTER XIX.

There were only four other passengers dropped by the eleven o'clock
express at Skeighan station, and, as it happened, young Gourlay knew
them all. They were petty merchants of the neighbourhood whom he had
often seen about Barbie. The sight of their remembered faces as he
stepped on to the platform gave him a delightful sense that he was
nearing home. He had passed fro