380 The Little Minister

man mending his boat. The instinct of self.
Preservation carried me to it, and presently I was
at a little house. A man was standing in the
rain hammering new hinges to the door; and
though I did not recognise him, I saw with
bewilderment that the woman at his side was
Nanny.

“It’s the dominie,” she cried, and her brother
added :

“Losh, sir, you hinna the look o’ a living
man.”

“Nanny,” I said, in perplexity, “what are you
doing here?”

“ Whaur else should I be?” she asked.

I pressed my hands over my eyes, crying,
“Where am |?”

Nanny shrank from me, but Sanders said,
“Flas the rain driven you gyte, man? You're
in Thrums.”

“But the sea,” I said, distrusting him. “I
hear it. Listen!”

“That’s the wind in Windyghoul,” Sanders
answered, looking at me queerly. “Come awa
into the house.”