In the doorway of the house stood a man and two women; farther in, a woman; and at the window to the left, the serving-wench, Jessie McFall, and two men of the farm. Of those in the doorway, the man was Peter, the half-witted youngest brother of Andrew Blair; the taller and older woman was Catreen, the widow of Adam, the second brother; and the thin, slight woman, with staring eyes and drooping mouth, was Muireall, the wife of Andrew. The old woman behind these was Maisie Macdonald. Andrew Blair stooped and took a saucer out of the _claar_. This he put upon the covered breast of the corpse. He stooped again, and brought forth a thick square piece of new-made bread. That also he placed upon the breast of the corpse. Then he stooped again, and with that he emptied a spoonful of salt alongside the bread. “I must see the corpse,” said Neil Ross simply. “It is not needful, Macallum.” “I must be seeing the corpse, I tell you--and for that, too, the bread and the water should be on the naked breast.” “No, no, man; it …” But here a voice, that of Maisie the wise woman, came upon them, saying that the man was right, and that the eating of the sins should be done in that way and no other. With an ill grace the son of the dead man drew back the sheeting. Beneath it, the corpse was in a clean white shirt, a death-gown long ago prepared, that covered him from his neck to his feet, and left only the dusky yellowish face exposed. While Andrew Blair unfastened the shirt and placed the saucer and the bread and the salt on the breast, the man beside him stood staring fixedly on the frozen features of the corpse. The new laird had to speak to him twice before he heard. “I am ready. And you, now? What is it you are muttering over against the lips of the dead?” “It is giving him a message I am. There is no harm in that, sure?” “Keep to your own folk, Macallum. You are from the West you say, and we are from the North. There can be no messages between you and a Blair of Strathmore, no messages for _you_ to be giving.” “He that lies here knows well the man to whom I am sending a message”--and at this response Andrew Blair scowled darkly. He would fain have sent the man about his business, but he feared he might get no other. “It is thinking I am that you are not a Macallum at all. I know all of that name in Mull, Iona, Skye, and the near isles. What will the name of your naming be, and of your father, and of his place?” Whether he really wanted an answer, or whether he sought only to divert the man from his procrastination, his question had a satisfactory result. “Well, now, it’s ready I am, Anndra-mhic-Adam.” With that, Andrew Blair stooped once more and from the _claar_ brought a small jug of water. From this he filled the saucer. “You know what to say and what to do, Macallum.”