Sir Haco was one of the few men who, regarding constantly the reality, not the show of things, keep throughout their life, however long, great part of their youth, and all their childhood. Deeper far in his heart than any of the honours he had received, all unsought but none undeserved, lay the memory of a happy and reverential boyhood. Sprung from a peasant stock, his father was a man of ‘high erected thought seated in a heart of courtesy.’ He was well matched with his wife, who, though born to a far higher social position in which simplicity is rarer, was, like him, true and humble and strong. They had one daughter, who grew up only to die: the moment they saw Kirsty, their hearts went out to her. For there was in Kirsty that unassumed, unconscious dignity, that simple propriety, that naturalness of a carriage neither trammeled nor warped by thought of self, which at once awakes confidence and regard; while her sweet, unaffected ‘book English,’ in which appeared no attempt at speaking like a fine lady, no disastrous endeavour to avoid her country’s utterance, revealed at once her genuine cultivation. Sir Haco said afterward that when she spoke Scotch it was good and thorough, and when she spoke English it was Wordsworthian. Listening to her first words, and reminded of the solemn sententious way in which sergeant Barclay used to express himself, his face rose clear in his mind’s eye, he saw it as it were reflected in his daughter’s, and broke out with-- ‘Eh, lassie, but ye’re like yer father!’ ‘Ye min’ upon him, sir?’ rejoined Kirsty, with her perfect smile. ‘Min’ upon him! Naebody worth _his_ min’in upo’ could ever forget him! Sit ye doon, and tell ’s a’ aboot him!’ Kirsty did as she was told. She began at the beginning, and explained first, what doubtless sir Haco knew at least something of before, the relation between her father and colonel Gordon, whence his family as well as himself had always felt it their business to look after the young laird. Then she told how, after a long interval, during which they could do nothing, a sad opportunity had at length been given them of at least attempting to serve him; and it was for aid in this attempt that she now sought sir Haco, who could direct her toward the procuring of certain information. ‘And what sort of information do you think I can give or get for you, Miss Barclay?’ asked sir Haco. ‘I’ll explain the thing to ye, sir, in as feow words as I can,’ answered Kirsty, dropping her English. ‘The young laird has taen ’t intil his heid that he didna carry himsel like a man i’ the siege, and it’s grown to be in him what they ca’ a fixt idea. He was left, ye see, sir, a’ himlane i’ the beleaguert toon, and I fancy the suddent waukin and the discovery that he was there his lee lane, jist pat him beside himsel.’ Here she told the whole story, as they had gathered it from Francis, mingling it with some elucidatory suggestions of her own, and having ended her narration, went on thus:--