“I’m takin’ upo’ me naething ayont his lordship’s ain word,” urged Malcolm. “If you’re to go by the very word,” rejoined Mrs Courthope, stopping and looking him full in the face, “you might insist on sleeping in Lord Gernon’s chamber itself.” “Weel, an’ sae I micht,” returned Malcolm. The hinted possibility of having to change bad for so much worse, appeared to quench further objection. “I must get it ready myself then,” she said resignedly, “for the maids won’t even go up that stair. And as to going into any of those rooms----!” “’Deed no, mem! ye sanna du that,” cried Malcolm. “Sayna a word to ane o’ them. I s’ wadger I’m as guid ’s the auld warlock himsel’ at makin’ a bed. Jist gie me the sheets an’ the blankets, an’ I’ll du ’t as trim ’s ony lass i’ the hoose.” “But the bed will want airing,” objected the housekeeper. “By a’ accoonts, that’s the last thing it’s likly to want--lyin’ neist door to _yon_ chaumer. But I hae sleepit mony’s the time er’ noo upo’ the tap o’ a boat-load o’ herrin’, an’ gien that never did me ony ill, it’s no likly a guid bed’ll kill me gien it sud be a wee mochy (_rather full of moths_).” Mrs Courthope yielded and gave him all that was needful, and before night Malcolm had made his new quarters quite comfortable. He did not retire to them, however, until he had seen his grandfather laid down to sleep in his lonely cottage. About noon the next day the old man made his appearance in the kitchen. How he had found his way to it, neither he nor any one else could tell. There happened to be no one there when he entered, and the cook when she returned stood for a moment in the door, watching him as he felt flitting about with huge bony hands whose touch was yet light as the poise of a butterfly. Not knowing the old man, she fancied at first he was feeling after something in the shape of food, but presently his hands fell upon a brass candlestick. He clutched it, and commenced fingering it all over. Alas! it was clean, and with a look of disappointment he replaced it. Wondering yet more what his quest could be, she watched on. The next instant he had laid hold of a silver candlestick not yet passed through the hands of the scullery maid; and for a moment she fancied him a thief, for he had rejected the brass and now took the silver; but he went no farther with it than the fireplace, where he sat down on the end of the large fender, and, having spread his pocket handkerchief over his kilted knees, drew a similar rag from somewhere, and commenced cleaning it. By this time one of the maids who knew him had joined the cook, and also stood watching him with amusement. But when she saw the old knife drawn from his stocking, and about to be applied to the nozzle, to free it from adhering wax, it seemed more than time to break the silence. “Eh! that’s a siller can’lestick, Maister MacPhail,” she cried, “an’ ye maunna tak a k-nife till ’t, or ye’ll scrat it a’ dreidfu’.”