“It’s the gentleman,” said the old man simply. “If they left any papers,” interposed Cuthbert, “or books, or any relics indeed from which we might discover their origin--I should feel it a great obligation, Miss Calder, if you would assist me to trace it.” “Obligation! I have little broo of obligation,” said the old woman with a grating laugh, mingled of harshness and imbecility. “I have seen ower mony folk that I obliged, slip away out of my hand like a knotless thread; but is there anything like to come of it? I dinna ken this stranger lad--I can put trust in you, Alexander Muir--that is in what you _say_, ye ken.” “Well, Miss Jean, it depends upon what the gentleman finds out,” said the old man, a little proud of his tactics, and marvelling within himself at his own address, “if he can be satisfied by means of any papers or books or such like--I believe something good may come of it.” The old woman wavered. “It’s a hantle trouble,” she said, “to put a frail woman like me to, that have but a little monkey of a lassie to help me in the house,--but there _is_ a kist ben yonder in below the bed--and there may be some bits of things in it--I dinna ken--but neither her nor me are fit to pull it out.” “Can I help?” said Cuthbert, hurriedly. “Ye’re unco ready wi’ your offer, lad,” said Miss Jean, grimly, “it’s no for love o’ the wark, I judge, wi’ thae bit white lassie’s fingers--look at mine,” and she extended a long shrivelled hand, armed like the claws of a bird, “na, na, I ken naething about you--but if Katie and you can manage it, Sandy Muir--and she’s a fusionless brat, no worth the half of the meat she eats--I’ll be nae hindrance--ye can try.” CHAPTER XIII. “Oh, lean and covetous old age!--a winter unblessed, that blights where’er it touches.” ALEXANDER MUIR instantly proceeded in great haste to the kitchen, whither Miss Jean suspiciously followed him. In a few minutes Cuthbert heard “the kist” making audible progress--and a very short time after, the old man called him out to the passage, between the two rooms, whither they had dragged it. “Ye’re giving yoursel a hantle fash wi’ a thing that can never do you ony good, Sandy,” said Miss Jean tauntingly, “for the Allenders were nae connexion to you, even though Violet Calder did marry your brother Jamie--Weel I wat she would have been better wanting him. It’s a bonnie story when its telled--a woman to live as lang as fifty year, and syne to die because her man died--auld taupie! when she might have been to the fore to have a share of the benefit, if there is to be ony benefit--what ailed the fuil to dee?” “Poor woman, she would have been blithe to remain, for the bairns’ sakes,” said the old man, gently, “if it had not been otherwise ordained.”