It was a lovely summer evening, and the sun, going down just beyond the point of the Scaurnose, shone straight upon the Partan’s door. That it was closed in such weather had a significance--general as well as individual. Doors were oftener closed in the Seaton now. The spiritual atmosphere of the place was less clear and open than hitherto. The behaviour of the factor, the trouble of their neighbours, the conviction that the man who depopulated Scaurnose would at least raise the rents upon them, had brought a cloud over the feelings and prospects of its inhabitants--which their special quarrel with the oppressor for Malcolm’s sake, had drawn deeper around the Findlays; and hence it was that the setting sun shone upon the closed door of their cottage. But a shadow darkened it, cutting off the level stream of rosy red. An aged man, in Highland garments, stood and knocked. His overworn dress looked fresher and brighter in the friendly rays, but they shone very yellow on the bare hollows of his old knees. It was Duncan MacPhail, the supposed grandfather of Malcolm. He was older and feebler--I had almost said blinder, but that could not be-- certainly shabbier than ever. The glitter of dirk and broadsword at his sides, and the many-coloured ribbons adorning the old bagpipes under his arms, somehow enhanced the look of more than autumnal, of wintry desolation in his appearance. Before he left the Seaton, the staff he carried was for show rather than use, but now he was bent over it, as if but for it he would fall into his grave. His knock was feeble and doubtful, as if unsure of a welcoming response. He was broken, sad, and uncomforted. A moment passed. The door was unlatched, and within stood the Partaness, wiping her hands in her apron, and looking thunderous. But when she saw who it was, her countenance and manner changed utterly. “Preserve ’s a’! Ye’re a sicht for sair e’en, Maister MacPhail!” she cried, holding out her hand, which the blind man took as if he saw as well as she. “Come awa’ but the hoose. Wow! but ye’re walcome.” “She thanks your own self, Mistress Partan,” said Duncan, as he followed her in; “and her heart will pe thanking you for ta coot welcome; and it will pe a long time since she’ll saw you howefer.” “Noo, noo!” exclaimed Meg, stopping in the middle of her little kitchen, as she was getting a chair for the old man, and turning upon him to revive on the first possible chance what had been a standing quarrel between them, “what _can_ be the rizon ’at gars ane like you, ’at never saw man or wuman i’ yer lang life, the verra meenute ye open yer mou’, say it’s lang sin’ ye _saw_ me. A mensefu’ body like you, Maister MacPhail, sud speyk mair to the p’int.”