'Don't yo becall Papists!' cried David, fiercely, facing round upon
him. 'My mither wor a Papist.'

A curious change of expression appeared on 'Lias's face. He put his
hand behind his ear that he might hear better, turned a pair of
cunning eyes on David, while his lips pressed themselves together.

'Your mither wor a Papist? an your feyther wor Sandy Grieve. Ay,
ay--I've yeerd tell strange things o' Sandy Grieve's wife,' he said
slowly.

Suddenly Louie, who had been lying full length on her back in the
sun, with her hat over her face, apparently asleep, sat bolt
upright.

'Tell us what about her,' she said imperiously.

'Noa--noa,' said the old man, shaking his head, while a sort of
film seemed to gather over the eyes, and the face and features
relaxed--fell, as it were, into their natural expression of weak
senility, which so long as he was under the stress of his favourite
illusions was hardly apparent. 'But it's true--it's varra true--I've
yeerd tell strange things about Sandy Grieve's wife.'

And still aimlessly shaking his head, he sat staring at the
opposite side of the ravine, the lower jaw dropping a little.

'He knows nowt about it,' said David, roughly, the light of a
sombre, half-reluctant curiosity, which had arisen in his look,