the road. His
head was tilted that he might keep his eyes upon the stone; and every
now and then, as he mused, he rubbed his chin slowly between the thumb
and fingers of his left hand. Entirely given up to the thought of
Templandmuir's account, he failed to see the figure advancing up the
street.

At last the scrunch of a boot on the wet road struck his ear. He turned
with his best glower on the man who was approaching; more of the
"Wha-the-bleezes-are-you?" look than ever in his eyes--because he had
been caught unawares.

The stranger wore a light yellow overcoat, and he had been walking a
long time in the rain apparently, for the shoulders of the coat were
quite black with the wet, these black patches showing in strong contrast
with the dryer, therefore yellower, front of it. Coat and jacket were
both hanging slightly open, and between was seen the slight bulge of a
dirty white waistcoat. The newcomer's trousers were turned high at the
bottom, and the muddy spats he wore looked big and ungainly in
consequence. In this appearance there was an air of dirty and
pretentious well-to-do-ness. It was not shabby gentility. It was like
the gross attempt at dress of your well-to-do publican who looks down on
his soiled white waistcoat with complacent and approving eye.

"It's a fine morning, Mr. Gourlay," simpered the stranger. His air was
that of a forward tenant who thinks it a great thing to pass remarks on
the weather with his laird.

Gourlay cast a look at the dropping heavens.

"Is that _your_ opinion?" said he. "I fail to see't mysell."

It was not in Gourlay to see the beauty of that gray, wet dawn. A fine
morning to him was one that burnt the back of your neck.

The stranger laughed: a little deprecating giggle. "I meant it was fine
weather for the fields," he explained. He had meant nothing of the kind,
of course; he had merely been talking at random in his wish to be civil
to that important man, John Gourlay.

"Imphm," he pondered, looking round on the weather with a wise air;
"imphm; it's fine weather for the fields."

"Are _you_ a farmer, then?" Gourlay nipped him, with his eye on the
white waistcoat.

"Oh--oh, Mr. Gourlay! A farmer, no. Hi--hi! I'm not a farmer. I dare
say, now, you have no mind of _me_?"

"No," said Gourlay, regarding him very gravely and steadily with his
dark eyes. "I cannot say, sir, that I have the pleasure of remembering
_you_."

"Man, I'm a son of auld John Wilson of Brigab