elephant? It's burst-in', I tell ye. Tak' it aff! Fetch it here, or I'll e'en
send Wullie to bring it!"

David paid no heed except to begin running heavily down the hill.
The coat was stretched in wrinkled agony across his back; his big,
red wrists protruded like shank-bones from the sleeves; and the
little tails flapped wearily in vain attempts to reach the wearer's
legs.

M'Adam, bubbling over with indignation, scrambled half through
the open window. Then, tickled at the amazing impudence of the
thing, he paused, smiled, dropped to the ground again, and
watched the uncouth, retreating figure with chuckling amusement.

"Did ye ever see the like o' that, Wullie?" he muttered. "Ma puir
coat--puir wee coatie! it gars me greet to see her in her pain. A
man's coat, Wullie, is aften unco sma' for his son's back; and David
there is strainin' and stretchin' her nigh to brakin', for a' the world
as he does ma forbearance. And what's he care aboot the one or
t'ither?--not a finger-flip."

As he stood watching the disappearing figure there began the slow
tolling of the minute-bell in the little Dale church. Now near, now
far, now loud, now low, its dull chant rang out through the mist
like the slow-dropping tears of a mourning world.

M'Adam listened, almost reverently, as the bell tolled on, the only
sound in the quiet Dale. Outside, a drizzling rain was falling; the
snow dribbled down the hill in muddy tricklets; and trees and roofs
and windows dripped.