"So be it," said the old man; "I will not deny that my servants are not so numerous nor so active that another would not be something of an improvement. Has he any skill in cooking?" This he asked in a shamefaced tone, for old as he was he had not lost his relish for good fare. "I will ask him," said I, and I called Nicol from the servants’ quarters. "Your master gives me a good account of you," said the cracked voice of the laird of Smitwood, "and I would fain hope it true. I wished to interrogate you about—ah, your powers—ah, of cooking pleasing dishes," and he waved his hand deprecatingly. "Oh, your honour, I am ready for a’ thing," said Nicol. "Sheep’s heid, singit to a thocht, cockyleeky and a’ kind o’ soup, mutton in half a dozen different ways, no to speak o’ sic trifles as confections. I can cook ye the flesh o’ the red deer and the troots frae the burn, forbye haggis and brose, partan pies and rizzard haddies, crappit-heids and scate-rumpies, nowt’s feet, kebbucks, scadlips, and skink. Then I can wark wi’ custocks and carlings, rifarts, and syboes, farles, fadges, and bannocks, drammock, brochan, and powsowdie." "That will do, you may go," said the old man, rubbing his hands with glee. "By my word, a genuine Scots gastronome, skilled in the ancient dishes of the land. I anticipate a pleasing time while he bides here." It was long ere the worthy gentleman could get over his delight in the project of my servant’s presence. Even after he had gone he sat and chuckled to himself, for he was known among his friends to have a fine taste for dainties. Meantime, the light was dying out of doors, and more logs were laid on the fire, till it crackled and leaped like a live thing. I have ever loved the light of a wood-fire, for there is no more heartsome thing on earth than its cheerful crackle when one comes in from shooting on the hills in the darkening of a winter’s day. Now I revelled in the comfort of it, since on the morrow I would have no other cheer than a flaming sunset. So we sat around the hearth and talked of many things till the evening was late. The old man fell to the memories of former folk, and told us tales of our forbears as would have made them turn in their graves could they have heard them. Of my house he had scarce a good word to speak, averring that they were all ’scape-the-gallows every one, but gallant fellows in their way. "There was never a Burnet," he cried, "who would scruple to stick a man who doubted his word, or who would not ride a hundred miles to aid a friend. There were no lads like the Burnets in all the countryside for dicing and feasting and riding breakneck on the devil’s errand. But, Gad, if they were stubborn as bulls when they were down themselves, they were as tender as women to folk in trouble." "There’s one of their name like to be in trouble for many days to come," said I.