Ill news travels fast, and by noon next day word of the complaint against their minister, of Mr. Muirhead’s suspension of him from the pulpit, and of David’s defiance¹ was in the mouth of every parishioner in Woodilee. David was aware of curious eyes following him as he went about the place, and of a new constraint² on the part of most of his Kirk Session. Peter Pennecuik fled his approach, and could be seen hobbling into the nearest kailyard, while Mirehope, when he met him, gave him greeting with averted³ face. But he noted⁴, too, a certain sympathy in others. Women, who had formerly⁵ avoided him, had now a friendly word, especially the young ones, and Alison Geddie — whose name had appeared in his charge — was overheard, as he passed, to comment in her pea-hen voice to her gossip: “Peety for sae wise-like a lad, and him aye with the kind word and the open hand to puir folk.”

Isobel, whose face was now always heavy with unspoken news, he kept at a distance, for in these days he was trying to make peace with his soul. By day and by night, on the hills and in his closet, he examined himself to find in his conscience cause of offence. He went over every step in his past course and could discover no other way than that he had followed. He could not see matter for blame in an act of common charity, though Old Testament⁹ precedents¹⁰ might be quoted against it; nor could he blame himself for his war against the things of the Wood. If he read his duty more by the dispensation of Christ than of Moses, it was Christ whom he had been ordained¹¹ to preach. . . . Of Katrine he scarcely suffered himself to think. She was a thing too fine and gracious to be touched with such doleful cares. Yet it was the thought of her which kept youth alive in him, and in his

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