By and by, the crafty pony availed himself of this surcease of discipline to twitch the rein out of Davies hands, and applied himself to browse on the grass by the side of the lane.

Sorely astounded by these symptoms of self-willed rebellion, and afraid alike to sit or to fall, poor Davie lifted up his voice and wept aloud.

The pony, hearing this pudder over his head, began apparently to think it would be best both for himself and Davie to return from whence they came, and accordingly commenced a retrograde movement towards Fairport.

But, as all retreats are apt to end in utter rout, so the steed, alarmed by the boy's cries, and by the flapping of the reins, which dangled about his forefeet--finding also his nose turned homeward, began to set off at a rate which, if Davie kept the saddle (a matter extremely dubious), would soon have presented him at Heukbane's stable-door,--when, at a turn of the road, an intervening auxiliary, in the shape of old Edie Ochiltree, caught hold of the rein, and stopped his farther proceeding.

"Wha's aught ye, callant?
whaten a gate's that to ride ?" "I canna help it!" blubbered the express; "they ca' me little Davie." "And where are ye gaun ?" "I'm gaun to Monkbarns wi' a letter." "Stirra, this is no the road to Monkbarns." But Davie could oinly answer the expostulation with sighs and tears.
Old Edie was easily moved to compassion where childhood was in the case.--"I wasna gaun that gate," he thought, "but it's the best o' my way o' life that I canna be weel out o' my road.