house by her father, when he had just saved her life. That was but
a few weeks ago, and here he was, called Sir Gilbert Galbraith! It
was a delicious bit of wonderment.

"Oh!" said Miss Kimble a second time, recovering herself a little,
"I see! A relative, Miss Galbraith! I did not understand. That of
course sets everything right--at least--even then--the open street,
you know!--You will understand, Mr. Sclater.--I beg your pardon, Sir
Gilbert. I hope I did not hurt you with my parasol!"

Gibbie again laughed aloud.

"Thank you," said Miss Kimble confused, and annoyed with herself for
being so, especially before her girls. "I should be sorry to have
hurt you.--Going to college, I presume, Sir Gilbert?"

Gibbie looked at Mr. Sclater.

"He is going to study with me for a while first," answered the
minister.

"I am glad to hear it, He could not do better," said Miss Kimble.
"Come, girls."

And with friendly farewells, she moved on, her train after her,
thinking with herself what a boor the young fellow was--the
young--baronet?--Yes, he must be a baronet; he was too young to have
been knighted already. But where ever could he have been brought
up?

Mr. Sclater had behaved judiciously, and taken gentle pains to
satisfy the old couple that they must part with Gibbie. One of the
neighbouring clergy knew Mr. Sclater well, and with him paid the old
people a visit, to help them to dismiss any lingering doubt that he
was the boy's guardian legally appointed. To their own common sense
indeed it became plain that, except some such story was true, there
could be nothing to induce him to come after Gibbie, or desire to
take charge of the outcast; but they did not feel thoroughly
satisfied until Mr. Sclater brought Fergus Duff to the cottage, to
testify to him as being what he pretended. It was a sore trial, but
amongst the griefs of losing him, no fear of his forgetting them was
included. Mr. Sclater's main difficulty was with Gibbie himself.
At first he laughed at the absurdity of his going away from his
father and mother and the sheep. They told him he was Sir Gilbert
Galbraith. He answered on his slate, as well as by signs which
Janet at least understood perfectly, that he had told them so, and
had been so all the time, "and what differ dos that mak?" he added.
Mr. Sclater told him he was--or would be, at least, he took care to
add, when he came of age--a rich man as well as a baronet.

"Writch men," wr