Min' this, lassie--lat fowk say as they like, but du ye as HE likes, an', or a' be dune, they'll be upo' their k-nees to ye.

An' sae they'll be yet to my bairn--though I'm some tribbled he sud hae saired the maister--e'en as he deserved." "What cud he du, sir?
It was na for himsel' he strack! An' syne he never muved an inch, but stud there like a rock, an' liftit no a han' to defen' himsel', but jist loot the maister tak his wull o' 'im." The pair tramped swiftly along the road, heeding nothing on either hand as they went, Aggie lithe and active, the laird stooping greatly in his forward anxiety to see his injured boy, but walking much faster "than his age afforded." Before they reached the village, the mid-day recess had come, and everybody knew what had happened.

Loud were most in praise of the boy's behaviour, and many were the eyes that from window and door watched the laird, as he hurried down the street to "Grannie's," where all had learned the young laird was lying.

But no one spoke, or showed that he was looking, and the laird walked straight on with his eyes to the ground, glancing neither to the right hand nor the left; and as did the laird, so did Aggie.
The door of the cottage stood open.

There was a step down, but the laird knew it well.