“If the people of this parish desire me for their minister, they will send me the call,” answered{1} I, pointedly. For these things, as I have ever believed, are in a Higher Hand.
“Doubtless, doubtless,” quoth auld Drummie; “but the Balmaghie folk are none of the waur o’ a bit spur in their flank like a reesty[8] powny that winna gang. They mind a minute’s jag frae the law mair nor the hale grace o’ God for a month, and mind ye that! Gin ye come amang us, lad, I’ll learn ye a trick or twa aboot the folk o’ Balmaghie that ye will be the wiser o’. Mind, I hae been here a’ my life, and an elder o’ the k for thirty year!”
“I am much indebted, sir, for your good intentions, but—
“Nae buts,” cried auld Drummie. “I hae my dochter Jean’s word that ye are a braw callan and deserve the pairish, and the pairish ye shall hae.”
“I am much indebted to your daughter,” I made answer. “She succoured me with bread to eat this morning, when in the kyard I was ready to faint with hunger. Without her kindness I know not how I would have come through the fatigues of this day’s exercises.”
“Ow, aye,” said the old man; “that’s just{119} like my dochter Jean. And a douce ceevil lassock she is. But ye should see my ither dochter afore ye craw sae croose aboot Jean.”
“You have another daughter?” I said, politely.
“Aye,” he cried, with enthusiasm. “Man, where hae ye comed frae that ye haena heard o’ Alexander-Jonita, the lass wha can tame a wild stallion that horse-dealers winna tackle, and ride it stride-leg like a man. There’s no’ a maiden in a’ the country can hand a cannle to Alexander-Jonita, the dochter o’ Nathan Gemmell of Drumglass, in the pairish o’ Balmaghie.”
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