When they returned to the house they found a stack of papers which the lawyer had brought to be examined, and Speid, though a little oppressed by the load of dormant responsibility it represented, sat gravely down, determined to do all that was expected of him. It was past three o’clock when Barclay pulled out his watch and inquired when he had breakfasted, for his own sensations were reminding him that he himself had done so at a very early hour. Gilbert went to the bell, but, as he stood with the rope in his hand, he remembered that he had no idea of the resources of the house, and did not even know whether there were any available servant whose duty it was to answer it. His companion sat looking at him with a half-smile, and he coloured as he saw it. When the door opened, a person peered in whom he dimly recollected seeing on his arrival in the group which had gathered to unload his post-chaise. He was a small, elderly man, whose large head shone with polished baldness. He was pale, and had the pose and expression we are accustomed to connect--perhaps unjustly--with field-preachers, and his rounded brow hung like the eaves of a house over a mild but impudent eye. His was the type of face to be seen bawling over a psalm-book at some sensational religious meeting, a face not to be regarded too long nor too earnestly, lest its owner should be spurred by the look into some insolent familiarity. He stood on the threshold looking from Speid to Barclay, as though uncertain which of the two he should address. It took Gilbert a minute to think of what he had wanted; for he was accustomed to the well-trained service of his father’s house, and the newcomer matched nothing that had a place in his experience. ‘What is it?’ inquired the man at the door. ‘Is there any dinner--anything that we can have to eat? You must forgive me, sir; but you see how it is. I am strange here, and I foolishly sent no orders.’ ‘I engaged a cook for you and it is hardly possible that she has made no preparation. Surely there is something in the kitchen, Macquean?’ ‘I’ll away down an’ see,’ said the man, disappearing. ‘Who is that?’ asked Gilbert, to whom the loss of a dinner seemed less extraordinary than the possession of such a servant. ‘His name is Mungo Macquean. He has had charge of the house for a great part of the time that it has stood empty. He is a good creature, Mr. Speid, though uncouth--very uncouth.’ In a few minutes the door opened again to admit Macquean’s head. ‘There’s a chicken she’ll roast to ye, an’ there’s brose. An’ a’m to tell her, are ye for pancakes?’ ‘Oh, certainly,’ said Gilbert. ‘Mr. Barclay, when shall it be?’ ‘The sooner the better, I think,’ said the other hopefully. ‘Then we will dine at once,’ said Gilbert. Macquean’s mouth widened and he stared at his master. ‘You’ll get it at five,’ he said, as he withdrew his head. The lawyer’s face fell. ‘I suppose it cannot be ready before then,’ he said, with a sigh.