pped his fingers.

"Peter Pearson o' Carsphairn--puir craitur, he's juist fair daft wi' his
ridin' an' his schemin'. He will hear a pluff o' pouther gang blaff at
his oxter some fine day, that he'll be the waur o'! An' sae I hae telled
him mony's the time. But Margate McCaskill's son is neither a Whig
hunter nor yet as this daft Peter Pearson. He bides at hame an' minds
his glebe. But for a' that I canna control the silly fowk. I was fearin'
them the ither day," he went on. "I gied it oot plain frae the pulpit
that gin they didna come as far as the kirkyaird at ony rate, I wad tak'
no more lees on my conscience for their sakes. I hae plenty o' my ain to
gar me fry. 'But,' says I, 'I'll report ye as attendin' the kirk, gin ye
walk frae yae door o' the kirk to the ither withoot rinnin'. Nae man can
say fairer nor that.'"

"An' what said ye next, Curate?" asked my cousin, for his talk amused us
much, and indeed there were few merry things in these sad days.

"Ow," said Peter McCaskill, "I juist e'en said to them, 'Black be your
fa'. Ye are a' off to the hills thegither. Hardly a tyke or messan but's
awa' to Peden to get her whaulpies named at the Holy Linn! But I declare
to ye a', what will happen in this parish. Sorra gin I dinna inform on
ye, an' then ye'll be a' eyther shot or hangit before Yule!' That's what
I said to them!"

Wat Gordon laughed, and I was fain to follow suit, for it was a common
complaint that the curate of Dalry was half a Whig himself. And, indeed,
had he not been ever ready to drink a dozen of Clavers's officers under
the table, and clout the head of the starkest carle in his troop, it
might have gone ill with him more than once.

"But I hae a bit sma' request to make of ye, Walter Gordon o' Lochinvar
an' Gordiestoun," said the curate.

"Haste ye," said Wat, "for ye hae taigled us overly long already."

"An' it's this," said the curate, "I hae to ride to Edinburgh toon,
there to tell mair lees than I am likely to be sained o' till I am a
bishop an' can lee wi' a leecence. But it's the Privy Council's wull,
an' sae I maun e'en lee. That tearin' blackguard, Bob Grier, has written
to them that I am better affected to the Whigs than to the troopers of
Garryhorn, and I am behoved to gang and answer for it."

"Haste ye, then, and ride with us," cried Walter, whose horse had stood
long enough. "We ride toward the Nith with Colonel Graham, and after
that to Edinburgh."

So in a little the curate w