Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books. It's a lang,
laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no very dry even in
the top o' the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he
sat, and thocht of a' that had come an' gane since he was in Ba'weary,
an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran daffin' on the
braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the owercome of a
sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o' the black man. He
tried the prayer, an' the words wouldnae come to him; an' he tried, they
say, to write at his book, but he couldnae mak' nae mair o' that. There
was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an' the swat stood
upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles when he cam' to
himsel' like a christened bairn and minded naething.
The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood glowrin' at Dule
Water. The trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under
the manse; and there was Janet washing' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted.
She had her back to the minister, an' he for his pairt, hardly kenned
what he was lookin' at.
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