'It's ill weather on the hills,' said the stranger, giving the watchword.
'For a season,' said Francie, 'but the Lord will appear.'
'Richt,' said the barefoot boy; 'wha're ye frae?'
'The Leddy Montroymont,' says Francie.
'Ha'e, then!' says the stranger, and handed him a folded paper, and they stood and looked at each other again. 'It's unco het,' said the boy.
'Dooms het,' says Francie.
'What do they ca' ye?' says the other.
'Francie,' says he. 'I'm young Montroymont. They ca' me Heathercat.'
'I'm Jock Crozer,' said the boy. And there was another pause, while each rolled a stone under his foot.
'Cast your jaiket and I'll fecht ye for a bawbee,' cried the elder boy with sudden violence, and dramatically throwing back his jacket.
'Na, I've nae time the now,' said Francie, with a sh
