father's----Wullie? Adam--M 'Adam's--Red Wull?" He was panting
from his exertions, and his eyes were blazing. "I pit up as best I
can wi' all manner o' disrespect to masel'; but when it comes to
takin' ma puir Wullie, I cantia thole it. Ha' ye no heart?" he asked,
unconscious of the irony of the question.

"As much as some, I reck'n," David muttered.

"Eh, what's that? What d'ye say?"

"Ye may thrash me till ye're blind; and it's nob'but yer duty; but if
only one daurs so much as to look at yer Wullie ye're mad," the
boy answered bitterly. And with that he turned away defiantly and
openly in the direction of Kenmuir.

M'Adam made a step forward, and then stopped.

"I'll see ye agin, ma lad, this evenin','' he cried with cruel
significance.

"I doot but yo'il be too drunk to see owt-- except, 'appen, your
bottle," the boy shouted back; and swaggered down the hill.

At Kenmuir that night the marked and particular kindness of
Elizabeth Moore was too much for the overstrung lad. Overcome
by the contrast of her sweet motherliness, he burst into a storm of
invective against his father, his home, his life--everything.

"Don't 'ee, Davie, don't 'ee, deane!" cried Mrs. Moore, much
distressed. And taking him to her she talked to the great, sobbing