murmur of voices. He moved away from the humble-bee's dwelling and
established himself on a quieter slope under a bush of broom. A
whin-chat said "check, check" above him, and flirted a brilliant
tail; but Ralph Peden was not afraid of whin-chats. Here he
settled himself to study, knitting his brows and drumming on the
ground with the toe of one foot to concentrate his attention. The
whin-chat could hear him murmuring to himself at intervals,
"Surely that is the sense--it must be taken this way." Sometimes,
on the contrary, he shook his head at Luther's Commentary, which
lay on the short, warm turf before him, as if in reproof. Ralph
was of opinion that Luther, but for his great protective
reputation, and the fact that he had been dead some time, might
have been served with a libel for heresy--at least if he had
ministered to the Marrow kirk.

Then after a little he pulled his hat over his eyes to think, and
lay back till he could just see one little bit of Loch Grannoch
gleaming through the trees, and the farm of Nether Crae set on the
hillside high above it. He counted the sheep on the green field
over the loch, numbering the lambs twice because they frisked
irresponsibly about, being full of frivolity and having no
opinions upon Luther to sober them.

Gradually a haze spun itself over the landscape, and Ralph Peden's
head slowly fell back till it rested somewhat sharply upon a
spikelet of prickly whin. His whole body sat up instantly, with an
exclamation which was quite in Luther's manner. He had not been
sleeping. He rejected the thought; yet he acknowledged that it was
nevertheless passing strange that, just where the old single-
arched bridge takes a long stride over the Grannoch lane, there