'That's as muckle as to say, accordin' to Cocker, that I'm no to speik a word against him. But I'll say what I like. He's no my maister,' said MacGregor, who could drink very little without suffering in his temper and manners; and who, besides, had a certain shrewd suspicion as to the person who still sat in the dark end of the room, possibly because the entrance of Mr. Lammie had interrupted the exorcism. The chairman interposed with soothing words; and the whole company, Cocker included, did its best to pacify the manufacturer; for they all knew what would be the penalty if they failed. A good deal of talk followed, and a good deal of whisky was drunk. They were waited upon by Meg, who, without their being aware of it, cast a keen parting glance at them every time she left the room. At length the conversation had turned again to Andrew Falconer's death. 'Whaur said ye he dee'd, Mr. Lammie?' 'I never said he was deid. I said I was feared 'at he was deid.' 'An' what gars ye say that? It micht be o' consequence to hae 't correck,' said the solicitor. 'I had a letter frae my auld frien' and his, Dr. Anderson. Ye min' upo' him, Mr. Innes, dunna ye? He's heid o' the medical boord at Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he doobts he's gane. He gaed up the country, and he hasna hard o' him for sae lang. We hae keepit up a correspondence for mony a year noo, Dr. Anderson an' me. He was a relation o' Anerew's, ye ken--a second cousin, or something. He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine pension.' 'He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon',' said MacGregor. 'What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-leggit oye (grandson) o' hers, Anerew's son?' asked Sampson. 'Ow! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a fine lad, and a clever, they tell me,' said Mr. Thomson. 'Indeed, he's all that, and more too,' said the school-master. 'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo!' said MacGregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger. 'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm.' 'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the bleachgreen yet.' 'She doesna weir cotton sarks,' growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu!' Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon the conversation with intent. 'Ye haena telt 's yet, Cocker,' he said, 'what that maister o' yours is duin' here at this time o' the year. I wad ken that, gin ye please.' 'How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?' returned the factor, taking no notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put. 'He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Algerine pirates 'at Lord Exmooth's het the hips o'--and that's my opingon.' 'He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor,' said the banker. 'Ye micht jist lat him lie.'