t lass, and . . . he loved her.

[Illustration: Mother Church cast her spell over his imagination.]

What an absurdity was this revery, and Carmichael laughed aloud at
himself. Twice he had met Miss Carnegie--on one occasion she had found
him watering strange dogs out of his hat, and on the other he had given
her to understand that women were little removed from fools. He had
made the worst of himself, and this young woman who had lived with
smart people must have laughed at him. Very likely she had made him
into a story, for as a raconteur himself he knew the temptation to work
up raw material, or perhaps Miss Carnegie had forgotten long ago that
he had called. Suppose that he should call to-morrow on his way home
and say, "General Carnegie, I think it right to tell you that I admire
your daughter very much, and should like your permission to pay my
addresses. I am Free Church minister in Drumtochty, and my stipend is
200 pounds a year" . . . his laugh this time was rather bitter. The
Carnegies would be at once admitted into the county set, and he would
only meet them at a time . . . Lord Hay was a handsome and pleasant
young fellow. He would be at Glen Urtach House for the shooting in a
few days . . . that was a likely thing to happen . . . the families
were old friends . . . there would be great festivities in the
Glen . . . perhaps he would be asked to propose the bride's
health . . . It really seemed a providence that Saunderson should come
along the road when he was playing the fool like a puling boy, for if
any man could give a douche to love-sickness it was the minister of
Kilbogie.

Carmichael was standing in the shadow as Saunderson came along the
road, and the faint light was a perfect atmosphere for the dear old
bookman. Standing at his full height he might have been six feet, but
with much poring over books and meditation he had descended some three
inches. His hair was long, not because he made any conscious claim to
genius, but because he forgot to get it cut, and with his flowing,
untrimmed beard, was now quite grey. Within his clothes he was the
merest skeleton, being so thin that his shoulder-blades stood out in
sharp outline, and his hands were almost transparent. The redeeming
feature in Saunderson was his eyes, which were large and eloquent, of a
trustful, wistful hazel, the beautiful eyes of a dumb animal. Whether
he was expounding doctrines of an incredible disbelief in humanity or