But to Kit there was nothing to grumble about. He was pleased, if any one was. His clogs did not let in the snow. His coat was rough, but warm. If any one was well off, and knew it, it was Kit Kennedy.
So he came down-stairs, if stairs they could be called that were but the rounds of a ladder. His aunt heard him.
"Keep awa' frae the kitchen, ye thievin' loon! There's nocht there for ye--takin' the bairns' meat afore they're up!"
But Kit was not hungry, which, in the circumstances, was as well. Mistress MacWalter had caught him red-handed on one occasion. He was taking a bit of hard oatcake out of the basket of "farles" which swung from the black, smoked beam in the corner. Kit had cause to remember the occasion. Ever since, she had cast it up to him. She was a master at casting up, as h
