But the scene between Curate Haddo and Janet M'Clour had also given him much to think of: and he was still puzzling over the case of the curate, and why such ill words were said of him, and why, if he were so merry-spirited, he should yet preach so dry, when coming over a knowe, whom should he see but Janet, sitting with her back to him, minding her cattle! He was always a great child for secret, stealthy ways, having been employed by his mother on errands when the same was necessary; and he came behind the lass without her hearing.
'Jennet,' says he.
'Keep me,' cries Janet, springing up.

'O, it's you, Maister Francie! Save us, what a fricht ye gied me.' 'Ay, it's me,' said Francie.

'I've been thinking, Jennet; I saw you and the curate a while back--' 'Brat!' cried Janet, and coloured up crimson; and the one moment made as if she would have stricken him with a ragged stick she had to chase her bestial with, and the next was begging and praying that he would mention it to none.

It was 'naebody's business, whatever,' she said; 'it would just start a clash in the country'; and there would be nothing left for her but to drown herself in Dule Water.
'Why ?' says Francie.
The girl looked at him and grew scarlet again.
'And it isna that, anyway,' continued Francie.

'It was just that he seemed so good to ye--like our Father in heaven, I thought; and I thought that mebbe, perhaps, we had all been wrong about him from the first.