"My father put me out," he explained, "because he's daft for the
drink, and was fleid he would curse me. He hasna cursed me," Micah
added, proudly, "for an aught days come Sabbath. Hearken to him at
his loom. He daurna take his feet off the treadles for fear o'
running straucht to the drink."

Gavin went in. The loom, and two stools, the one four-footed and
the other a buffet, were Rob's most conspicuous furniture. A
shaving-strap hung on the wall. The fire was out, but the trunk of
a tree, charred at one end, showed how he heated his house. He
made a fire of peat, and on it placed one end of a tree trunk that
might be six feet long. As the tree burned away it was pushed
further into the fireplace, and a roaring fire could always be got
by kicking pieces of the smouldering wood and blowing them into
flame with the bellows. When Rob saw the minister he groaned
relief and left his loom. He had been weaving, his teeth clenched,
his eyes on fire, for seven hours.

"I wasna fleid," little Micah said to the neighbours afterwards,
"to gang in wi' the minister. He's a fine man that. He didna ca'
my father names. Na, he said, 'You're a brave fellow, Rob,' and he
took my father's hand, he did. My father was shaking after his
fecht wi' the drink, and, says he. 'Mr. Dishart,' he says, 'if
you'll let me break out nows and nans, I could, bide straucht
atween times, but I canna keep sober if I hinna a drink to look
forrit to.' Ay, my father prigged sair to get one fou day in the
month, and he said, 'Syne if I die sudden, there's thirty chances
to one that I gang to heaven, so it's worth risking.' But Mr.
Dishart wouldna hear o't, and he cries, 'No, by God,' he cries,