Cud he be kennin'
you, no? Ye 're a stranger here, mem."
"No sic a stranger, John!" returned Miss Horn, calling the man by
his name, for she recognized him as the beadle of the parish church.
"What 's the body like?"
"A puir, wee, hump backit cratur, wi' the face o' a gentleman."
"I ken him weel," said Miss Horn. "He is a gentleman--gien ever
God made ane. But he 's sair afflickit. Whaur does he lie at nicht
--can ye tell me?"
"I ken naething aboot him, mem, by what comes o' seein' him sic
like 's the day, an' ance teetin (peering) in at the door o' the
kirk. I wad hae weised him till a seat, but the moment II luikit at
him, awa' he ran. He 's unco cheenged though, sin' the first time
I saw him."
Since he lost Phemy, fear had been slaying him. No one knew where
he slept; but in the daytime he haunted the streets, judging them
safer than the fields or woods. The moment any one accosted him,
however, he fled like the wind. He had "no art to find the mind's
construction in the face;" and not knowing whom to trust, he
distrusted all. Humanity was good in his eyes, but there was no
man. The vision of Miss Horn was like the dayspring from on high to
him; with her near, the hosts of the Lord seemed to encamp around
him; but the one word he had heard her utter about his back, had
caused in him an invincible repugnance to appearing before her, and
hence it was that at a distance he had haunted her steps without
nearer approach.
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