Peebles, a long, dry Scotchman, who but for his white hair might have been of any age from thirty-five to eighty, long in leg and arm, long in the back, long in the nose and upper-lip, shrewd of eye, dry and deliberate in action, moved soundlessly about the room until summoned by his master’s voice. ‘Peebles!’ ‘My lord?’ ‘How do I look? No flattery, now. Speak out.’ ‘Much flattery ye’ll get frae me, or ever did,’ muttered Peebles, taking his stand before the invalid, and scrutinizing him with a cast-iron countenance of no name-able expression. ‘Well, Peebles, well! How do I look?’ ‘My lord,’ said Peebles, after another thirty seconds’ inspection, ‘you look as green as grass and as sick as peasemeal!’ ‘Nonsense! Pooh! Rubbish!’ Each word shot out of his lordship’s mouth like a bullet, ‘I never felt better.’ ‘Ye never looked worse,’ said Peebles. ‘God bless my soul!’ said his lordship. ‘It must be those damn’d globules that Clarke is giving me. They’re ruining my liver--actually ruining it. Infernal idiots of doctors!’ His fingers moved faster. ‘Go away, Peebles, go away!’ Peebles retired into the background, and stood scraping his lantern jaws with his right hand. ‘Peebles!’ said the old gentleman presently. ‘My lord?’ ‘You don’t think----’ Lord Kilpatrick paused, hem’d, and finally shot the question out of himself with a suddenness which showed how strong a repugnance he had to conquer before he could ask it--‘you don’t think I’m going to _die?_’ ‘Ye don’t suppose ye’re _immortal_, do ye?’ asked the unbending servitor. ‘Of course not! Confound you for an unfeeling blockhead!’ cried his master. ‘Give me your advice--tell me what to do.’ ‘I’m to prescribe for ye?’ asked Peebles, looking, as he stood outlined against the oblong of white sky seen through the window, like the silhouette of some curious species of parrot. ‘If you can!’ ‘What else have I been doing this last nineteen years,’ asked Peebles, ‘but prescribing the one sure remedy ye winna tak’? My lord, your disease is pride. Try the black draught of humility and the blue pill of atonement!’ ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ asked his lordship, looking angrily at his servant, who returned his gaze quite unmoved. ‘Ye know weel what I’m talkin’ aboot,’ he returned, with no quickening of his usual deliberate drawl. ‘Acknowledge your child, Lord Kilpatrick, and thank God humbly on your knees for such a son to bless your declining years.’ ‘By Heaven!’ cried his lordship, sitting up in his chair, ‘you--you--how dare you trifle with me?’ The gray shade deepened on his face, his trembling hands were pressed against his heart. ‘I have done my uttermost. I have provided for the boy. I have looked after his welfare--can a man do more?’ ‘Ay, he can! Desmond Macartney is your flesh and blood. Acknowledge him before the world--it’s all the atonement ye can make to the poor lass that’s gone.’ ‘She was not my wife!’ ‘Ay was she,’ returned Peebles, ‘in the sight o’ God!’