"As ye war sayin', sir, we wull trust the Lord--Himsel' wull be oor
strength and stay."

The minister turned. It was a middle-aged man who spoke--David M'Kie,
the familiar good spirit of the village of Whunnyliggate, and indeed of
the whole parish. Wherever sickness was, there David was to be found.

"I was thinking," said the minister sententiously, "that it is not the
high and lofty ones who sit most securely on their seats. The Lord is on
the side of the quiet folk who wait."

"Ay, minister," said David M'Kie tentatively.

It was worth while coming five miles out of a man's road to hear the
minister's words. There was not a man who would have a word to say,
except himself, in the smiddy of Whunnyliggate that night--not even the
autocratic smith.

"Yes, David, it was grand, no doubt, to hear Clavers clattering down the
Lawnmarket and turning the West Port like a whirlwind, with all his
pennons fluttering; but it was the Westland Levies, with their pikes and
their Bibles, that won the day at Dunkeld in the hinder-end. The king
and his men were a bonnie sicht, with their lace collars and their
floating love-locks; but the drab-coats beat him out of the field,
because the Lord was on their side, at Naseby and Marston Moor."

The two men were now on the final rise of the hillside. The whole valley
of the Dee lay beneath them, rich with trees and pasture-lands, waving
crops and the mansions of the great. The minister shaded his eyes with
his hand, and looked beneath the sun. He pointed with his finger to
Thrieve, whose tall keep glimmered up from its island amid the mists of
the river.

"There is the castle where the proud once dwelt and looked to dwell for
ever, having no fear of God or man. The hanging-stone is there that
never wanted its tassel, the courtyard where was the ready block, the
dungeon for the captive, the banquet-hall and the earl's chamber. They
are all there, yet only the owl and the bat dwell in them for ever."

"There is a boy that makes poetry aboot the like o' that," said David
M'Kie, who loved to astonish the minister.

"And who, pray, is the boy who makes poetry? I would like to see him."

"'Deed, minister, gin ye're gaun up to Drumquhat the day, as I jalouse
ye are, ye may see him. They ca' him Walter Carmichael. He's some sib to
the mistress, I'm thinkin'."

"Yes, I have seen him in church, but I never had speech with the lad,"
said the minister.

"Na, I can weel believe that. The