At the stables, warm indeed was the welcome he met from the veteran groom Johnnie, who did not seem older by a day since Roland had seen him last--hale, hardy, and lithe, though past his sixtieth year, with long body, short bandy legs, small, closely-shaven head, and sharp, keen, twinkling eyes--his white tie scrupulously folded, and attired as usual in a heavily flapped corduroy waistcoat, with large pockets, in one of which was stuck a curry-comb, and in his hands was a steel bridle-bit, which he was polishing with leather till it shone like silver. Roland Lindsay had been so long away from among his own people and native country, that he felt the keenest pleasure at the warmth of his reception by any of the old servants whom the new _régime_ permitted to linger about Earlshaugh. 'Eh, Captain, how like the Laird, your worthy father, you are!' exclaimed old Johnnie Buckle, with kindly eyes, adding, 'but I hope you'll never live to be sic a gomeral--excuse me, sir.' Roland knew to what the old fellow referred, and was silent. Like the old English squire of Belton, his father had been, though a popular man with all his friends, and brother fox-hunters especially, and a boon companion too--one that had a dignity that was his from nature rather than effort, but was 'a man who, in fact, did little or nothing in the world--whose life had been very useless, but who had been gifted with such a presence that he looked as though he were one of God's noblest creatures. Though always dignified, he was ever affable, and the poor liked him better than they might have done had he passed his time in searching out their wants and supplying them.' Though little of eleemosynary aid is ever required or looked for by the manly, self-reliant, and independent peasantry of Scotland. 'You have some good nags here,' said Roland, as he walked through the stables. 'I shall want two or three for the saddle in a day or two.' The old groom shook his head and chewed a straw viciously. 'I should like a spin on this one--a pretty roan hunter.' 'Yes; he's about sixteen hands high, a bonnie wee head, full chest and barrel, broad i' the loins, and firm of foot.' 'The very nag for me, Johnnie.' 'But you can't have him, Maister Roland,' said the groom, forgetting the lapse of years. 'Why?' 'That is Mr. Hawkey Sharpe's favourite saddle horse.' 'Oh--indeed--this mare, then?' 'That is his hack.' 'The devil! This roadster, then?' 'His pad; no leg must cross it but his own. That is a nag more difficult to find in perfection than even a hunter or roan,' said Buckle, passing a hand admiringly over the silky flank of the animal. 'That bay cob is close on saxteen hands high, bonnie in shape, as ye see, and high-stepping in action, gentle as a wean, and a wean might lead it.' 'That, too, is Mr. Sharpe's, I presume!' 'Yes, sir.' 'By Jove, he is well mounted!' said Roland, in irrepressible wrath, thinking of a certain individual 'on horse-back.'