everything had been going on in the usual Saturday fashion--the
work of the day which closed the week's labours, being to repeat a
certain number of questions of the Shorter Catechism (which term,
alas! included the answers), and next to buttress them with a number
of suffering caryatids, as it were--texts of Scripture, I mean,
first petrified and then dragged into the service. Before Mr
Graham returned, every one had done his part except Sheltie, who,
excellent at asking questions for himself, had a very poor memory
for the answers to those of other people, and was in consequence
often a keepie in. He did not generally heed it much, however, for
the master was not angry with him on such occasions, and they gave
him an opportunity of asking in his turn a multitude of questions
of his own.

When he entered, he found Malcolm reading The Tempest and Sheltie
sitting in the middle of the waste schoolroom, with his elbows on
the desk before him, and his head and the Shorter Catechism between
them; while in the farthest corner sat Mr Stewart, with his eyes
fixed on the ground, murmuring his answerless questions to himself.

"Come up, Sheltie," said Mr Graham, anxious to let the boy go.
"Which of the questions did you break down in today?"

"Please, sir, I cudna rest i' my grave till the resurrection,"
answered Sheltie, with but a dim sense of the humour involved in
the reply.

"'What benefits do believers receive from Christ at death?'" said
Mr Graham, putting the question with a smile.