92 The Little Minister

and Gavin would not let his eyes follow her. It
was not the mud on his face that distréssed him,
nor even the hand that had flung the divit. It
was the word “little.” Though even Margaret
was not aware of it, Gavin’s shortness had grieved
him all his life. There had been times when
he tried to keep the secret from himself. In his
boyhood he had sought a remedy by getting his
larger comrades to stretch him. In the company
of tall men he was always self-conscious. In the
pulpit he looked darkly at his congregation when
he asked them who, by taking thought, could add
a cubit to his stature. When standing on a
hearthrug his heels were frequently on the fen-
der. In his bedroom he has stood on a foot-
stool and surveyed himself in the mirror. Once
he fastened high heels to his boots, being ashamed
to ask Hendry Munn to do it for him; but this
dishonesty shamed him, and he tore them off.
So the Egyptian had put a needle into his pride,
and he walked to the manse gloomily. :

Margaret was at her window, looking for him,
and he saw her, though she did not see him. He
was stepping into the middle of the road to wave
his hand to her, when some sudden weakness
made him look towards the fields instead. The
Egyptian saw him and nodded thanks for his
interest in her, but he scowled and pretended to
be studying the sky. Next moment he saw her
running back to him.

“There are soldiers at the top of the field,”
she cried. “I cannot escape that way.”

“There is no other way,” Gavin answered.

“Will you not help me again?” she entreated.