“I hear that your father is but weakly,” wrote the matter-of-fact Daniel, “and your brother Gilbert being dead two months ago, as you were informed, has sent for Walter--that’s the captain--home. If you were asking my opinion, I would say you should certainly come back to be at hand whatever might happen; for when once trouble comes into a family, there is no saying where it may end; and, after your father, and Walter, and Robert, there is no doubt that you are the right heir.” This letter had been torn up as if in indignation of the cold-blooded counsel. Cuthbert laid it aside as a link in the chain which he had to form. “I’ll no have the book destroyed wi’ weet. I tell ye, I winna, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, extending her lean brown hand. “Let it abee wi’ your napkin. I wonder that the like o’ you, that pretends to be better than your neighbours, could gie such usage to the Scripture. Think shame o’ yourself, man; and be done wi’ your slaistering.” The old man thrust her hand away with less than his usual mildness. “Have patience a moment--just have patience. See, Mr. Charteris, see!” Cuthbert rose--the leaves came slowly separate--and there in this simple record was all he sought. “John Allenders, writer, fourth son of Gilbert Allenders, of Allenders, married, on the first day of March, 1769, to Rose Scott, daughter of Thomas Scott, builder, Stirling.” Cuthbert laid down the book on the table, and, extending his hand, took the somewhat reluctant one of the anxious old man, and shook it heartily. “It’s all right,” said Cuthbert, swinging the arm of uncle Sandy in unusual exhilaration. “It’s all right. I have nothing to do but congratulate you, and get up the proof. I thought we would find it, and here it is as clear as daylight. It’s all exactly as it should be.” “What is right? what’s the lad meaning?” said Miss Jean, thrusting herself in between them; “and what are ye shaking hands wi’ that foolish body Sandy Muir for, when it’s me that ony thing belonging to the Allenders should justly come to? We keepit them here in our ain house; we gied the auld man decent burial as ye would see, and it’s out of my book ye have gotten a’ ye ken. What does the man mean shaking hands wi’ Sandy Muir?” “It’s no for me--it’s for the bairns--it’s for Harry,” said Alexander. “Hairy! and what has Hairy to do wi’t, I would like to ken? He’s but a far-away friend; forbye being a prodigal, that it wad be a shame to trust guid siller wi’--Hairy!--the man’s daft! what has he to do with John Allenders?” “A little,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “He is the _heir_ of John Allenders, Miss Calder.” “The heir!” the old woman’s face grew red with anger. “I tell ye he had nae lawful heir, if it binna the ane surviving that did him kindness. It’s you that disna ken. Hairy Muir is but niece’s son to me.” “But he is grandson to Rose Allenders,” said Cuthbert, “and the heir of her father.”