on the hill."

She stood in the middle of the room in her best gown, as if she had
been going to church, her Bible, a good-sized octavo, under her arm,
with a white handkerchief folded round it, and her umbrella in her
hand.

"He that believeth shall not make haste," she said, "but he maunna
tempt the Lord, aither. Drink that milk, Gibbie, an' pit a bannock
i' yer pooch, an' come awa'."

Robert rose from the edge of the bed, staff in hand, ready too. He
also was in his Sunday clothes. Oscar, who could make no change of
attire, but was always ready, and had been standing looking up in
his face for the last ten minutes, wagged his tail when he saw him
rise, and got out of his way. On the table were the remains of
their breakfast of oat-cake and milk--the fire Janet had left on the
hearth was a spongy mass of peat, as wet as the winter before it was
dug from the bog, so they had had no porridge. The water kept
coming in splashes down the lum, the hillocks of the floor were
slimy, and in the hollows little lakes were gathering: the lowest
film of the torrent-water ran down the rock behind, and making its
way between rock and roof, threatened soon to render the place
uninhabitable.

"What's the eese o' lo'denin' yersel' wi' the umbrell?" said Robert.
"Ye'll get it a' drookit (drenched)."

"Ow, I'll jist tak it," replied Janet, with a laugh in
acknowledgment of her husband's fun; "it'll haud the rain ohn blin't
me."

"That's gien ye be able to haud it up. I doobt the win' 'll be ower
sair upo' 't. I'm thinkin', though, it'll be mair to haud yer beuk
dry!"

Janet smiled and made no denial.

"Noo, Gibbie," she said, "ye gang an' lowse Crummie. But ye'll hae
to lead her. She winna be to caw in sic a win' 's this, an' no
plain ro'd afore her."

"Whaur div ye think o' gauin'?" asked Robert, who, satisfied as
usual with whatever might be in his wife's mind, had not till this
moment thought of asking her where she meant to take refuge.

"Ow, we'll jist mak for the Mains, gien ye be agreeable, Robert,"
she answered. "It's there we belang till, an' in wather like this
naebody wad refeese bield till a beggar, no to say Mistress Jean
till her ain fowk."

With that she led the way to the door and opened it.

"His v'ice was like the soon' o' mony watters," she said to herself
softly, as the liquid thunder of the torrent came in the louder.

Gibbie shot round the corner to the byre, whence through all the
r