On Monday Claud rose early, and, without waiting for breakfast, or heeding the remonstrances of his wife on the risk he ran in going afield fasting, walked to Glasgow, and went directly to the house of his mother-in-law, the aged Leddy Plealands, now considerably above fourscore. The natural delicacy of her constitution had received so great a shock from the death of Charles, that she was unable that morning to leave her room. Having, however, brought home with her the two orphans until after the funeral, their grandfather found them playing in the parlour, and perhaps he was better pleased to meet with them than had she been there herself. Although they knew him perfectly, yet the cold and distant intercourse which arose from his estrangement towards their father, had prevented them from being on those terms of familiarity which commonly subsist between children and their grandfathers; and when they saw him enter the room, they immediately left their toys on the floor, and, retiring to a corner, stood looking at him timidly, with their hands behind. The old man, without seeming to notice their innocent reverence, walked to a chair near the window, and sat down. His demeanour was as calm, and his features as sedate, as usual, but his eyes glittered with a slight sprinkling of tears, and twice or thrice he pressed his elbows into his sides, as if to restrain some inordinate agitation of the heart. In the course of a few minutes he became quite master of himself, and, looking for a short time compassionately at the children, he invited them to come to him. Mary, the girl, who was the youngest, obeyed at once the summons; but James, the boy, still kept back. ‘What for wilt t’ou no come to me?’ said Claud. ‘I’ll come, if ye’ll no hurt me,’ replied the child. ‘Hurt thee! what for, poor thing, should I hurt thee?’ inquired his grandfather, somewhat disturbed by the proposed condition. ‘I dinna ken,’ said the boy, still retreating,--‘but I am feart, for ye hurt papa for naething, and mamma used to greet for’t.’ Claud shuddered, and in the spasmodic effort which he made to suppress his emotion, he unconsciously squeezed the little hand of the girl so hardly, as he held her between his knees, that she shrieked with the pain, and flew towards her brother, who, equally terrified, ran to shelter himself behind a chair. For some time the old man was so much affected, that he felt himself incapable of speaking to them. But he said to himself,-- ‘It is fit that I should endure this. I sowed tares, and maunna expek wheat.’ The children, not finding themselves angrily pursued, began to recover courage, and again to look at him. ‘I did na mean to hurt thee, Mary,’ said he, after a short interval. ‘Come, and we’ll mak it up;’--and, turning to the boy, he added, ‘I’m very wae that e’er I did ony wrang to your father, my bonny laddie, but I’ll do sae nae mair.’