When Gideon Baxter sat down to compose his last sermon for the year, he disciplined himself with admissions of delusion and vainglory. He would not expect it to be received with such attention as its precursor had been—or seemed to be. Preaching was his duty; in his unquestioning acceptance of it as a pleasure he had accepted a temptation, and sinned. The temptation recurred. He had not spoken his first sentence before the feeling of being attended to sang in his ears. This time, he had known it for what it was—a permitted assault, Satan’s licensed try at him, which he must both resist and submit to. By the end of January he had resisted so efficaciously that though the attention persisted he got no pleasure from it.

The permitted assault moved to a different field; instead of being listened to, he was watched. To mortify his vanity, the watching was fitful, directed on him from here, from there. It sported with him as if he were a toy to be taken up, then tossed aside. It surprised him when he prayed, when he defecated, while he was hearing Ezekiel conjugate fero, ferre, tuli, latum. In sleep he would become aware of a scrutiny that observed his dreams.

As for what Ellin saw there, she kept it to herself. It amused her to be better informed about the Minister of Cotho than were the other Dissidents, whose surmises were often wide of the mark. Moray attributed Mr Baxter’s melancholy to the traditional liability of mortal husbands to suffer the discomforts of a pregnant wife. Seeing him clutch his head in his hands, Moray said knowingly, ‘You see? He’s got toothache now.’ At which Maugre remarked that Genghis Khan was born with teeth.

The days lengthened, the cold strengthened, the house grew dirtier and dirtier. Gibbie was in despair. On the first of March, Mistress Baxter fell in labour. The midwife knew what to expect and brought a stiff broom. Gibbie saw the bedchamber cleaned and set to rights, the kitchen table scrubbed, the dirty linen washed and hung out to sweeten in the frost. He was not the only person to be grateful to this admirable woman. Gideon Baxter’s window was open when a crony came to the door to ask how things were going.

‘Well, she’s just taking her time. But it’s an awful house for mislaying things. There’s three eggs I can’t put my hand on, and the sugar I beat small for making the caudle195, half of it has clean vanished.’

‘Mice, likely,’ said the crony.

‘And what would mice be doing with eggs? No, no, there’s more than mice about this house. It’s themselves, Ailie, it’s the Good Folk. They’re always pilferers.’