But very human was the pure unworldly spirit, deeply learned in the antiquities of the country, with which his very life seemed woven. Happily proud of all its fame and all its great men, and interested even in its prejudices, there could have been found nowhere a guide more pleasant. Cuthbert and he insensibly began to use the language of intimates--to feel themselves old friends; and when the children in the streets came forward to pull the old man’s skirts, and solicit his notice, the young one, impatient at first of the delay, became soon so much interested in the universal acquaintanceship of his cheerful companion, as to linger well pleased where he chose to linger. Almost every one who met them had a recognition respectful and kindly for uncle Sandy. His passage through the street was a progress. “But we are putting off our time,” said uncle Sandy at last. “This way, Mr. Charteris.” They were then in the outskirts of the town; before a two story house, of smaller proportions than his own, the old man at last concluded his walk. The door stood open, and the sanded passage leading to a flight of stone stairs, floury and white with “camstane,” proclaimed the house to have more occupants than one. A door opening into this passage gave them a glimpse of a family apartment, where the mother stood at an ample tub washing, while children of all sizes overflowed the limits of the moderately clean kitchen. This woman, Mr. Muir addressed kindly, inquiring after her exuberant family first, and then for Miss Jean. “Ou ay, there’s naething ails her,” was the answer, given not without some seeming ill-humour. “I was paying her the rent yestreen. She’s glegger about siller now, than ever I was a’ my days; and as for gieing a bawbee to a wean, or an hour’s mercy to a puir body, ye micht as weel move the heart o’ a whinstane; no that we’re needing ony o’ her charity. I have a guid man to work for me, that has been even on seven year wi’ ae maister, and there’s no mony could say that; but it’s awfu’ to see an auld body wi’ such a grip o’ the world.” Leaving Miss Jean’s tenant, operating with angry energy upon the garments in her hands, they proceeded up the camstaned stair to the door of Miss Jean’s own habitation. A very small girl, dressed in a remote and far-away fashion, with a thick cap covering her short-cut hair, admitted them, recognising the old man with a smile of evident pleasure, and looking with a little alarm at his companion. “You will tell Miss Jean it’s me, Katie, and a stranger gentleman I’ve brought to see her,” said uncle Sandy; “and when is she to let you home to see your mother?” “Whisht,” said the little girl in a whisper; “she’ll hear. She’ll no let me at a’. Oh, if you would speak to her, uncle!”