"The boy's fair dementit," cried Jean; "what for should auld Jean Gordon lee to him? Tell me your trouble, laddie," she said, going nearer to him. "For I've had trouble o' my ain a' my life, and weel I ken there are few things so evil that they canna be mended--that is, if ye are minded to stroke them the richt way o' the hair." At this point Peter McCaskill was heard shuffling along the passage, but Jean was over quick for him. She rose and very promptly and unceremoniously shut the door in his face. "Gae 'way wi' ye the noo, Peter," she said, peremptorily; "tak' the fish-pole and fetch in a fry o' trouts for the breakfast. Ye'll get naething else to eat gin ye dinna." "Noo, laddie," she said, sitting down beside Wat, with a world of sympathetic invitation in her voice, "tell me a' your heart's trouble." So, with a great sense of relief, Wat told the tale to the old lady, whose own love-trouble of fifty years before had kept her maiden all her life. As he spoke, Jean stroked the hand which hung over the edge of the bed. "Laddie, my laddie!" were all the articulate words she said, but she soothed Wat with a little, low, continuous murmur of sound as he fretted and fumed at his helplessness. "Ye shall get your lass--fear ye not that," she said, when he had finished. "I hae heard o' the wedding. They say the lass does naething but bide in her chamber and greet. She has fallen away to a shadow. But be that as it may, there is a great repair o' folk to the house o' Balmaghie. I saw a heap o' the queer, daftlike folk o' the north riding by, wi' feathers in their checked bonnets, and tartan trews on their hurdies--aye, trews of bonny tartan claith--ye never saw the like. But ye shall hae your lass, were it only to spite the menseless crew. Peter and me will help ye to her." In what manner Jean Gordon was to help him Wat Gordon knew not--nor, for the matter of that, Peter McCaskill either--save by getting him the loan of his cousin Sandy's horse, and even that might be a Highlandman's loan--taken without the asking. But Wat said nothing, only laid him down contentedly, while Jean Gordon set off to provide the breakfast she had so abruptly denied to the curate. Presently Peter came in with his trouts, for in the loch of Lochinvar the spotted beauties were infinitely less shy and infrequent than in later days they have become. "_Benedictus benedicat!_" quoth Peter, who knew his Latin by ear, and sat him down. "That's a daft, heathen-like grace," said Jean. "I shouldna wonder gin the folks did rabble ye and tear your white clouts ower your head, if ye gied them balderdash like that in the pulpit." The curate smiled a wry, discomfortable smile at the prophecy, but nevertheless he proceeded to take his breakfast with some fortitude, looking up occasionally to see that the trouts did not burn as they made a pleasant skirling noise in the pan.