In the kitchen, things were going on even more quietly than in the drawing-room. In front of the fire sat the English lord over his wine; Mistress Warlock sat in her arm-chair, knitting and dozing--between her evanescent naps wide awake, and ever and anon sliding her eyes from the stocking which did not need her attention to the guest who little desired it; the laird had taken his place at the other corner, and was reading the Journal of George Fox; and Grizzie was bustling about with less noise than she liked, and wishing heartily she were free of his lordship, that she might get on with her work. Scarcely a word was spoken. It began to grow dark; the lid of the night was closing upon them ere half a summer-day would have been over. But it mattered little: the snow had stayed the work of the world. Grizzie put on the kettle for her mistress’s tea. The old lady turned her forty winks into four hundred, and slept outright, curtained in the shadows. All at once his lordship became alive to the fact that the day was gone, shifted uneasily in his chair, poured out a bumper of claret, drank it off hurriedly, and hitched his chair a little nearer to the fire. His hostess saw these movements with satisfaction: he had appeased her personal indignation, but her soul was not hospitable towards him, and the devil in her was gratified with the sight of his discomposure: she hankered after talion, not waited on penitence. Her eyes sought those of Grizzie. “Gang to the door, Grizzie,” she said, “an’ see what the nicht’s like. I’m thinkin’ by the cry o’ the win’, it ’ll be a wull mirk again.--What think ye, laird?” Her son looked up from his book, where he had been beholding a large breadth of light on the spiritual sky, and answered, somewhat abstractedly, but with the gentle politeness he always showed her, “I should not wonder if it came on to snow again!” Lord Mergwain shifted uneasily. Grizzie returned from her inspection of the weather. “It’s black theroot, an’ dingin’ ’oot, wi’ great thuds o’ win’,” she said, quite unaware as usual of the style of her utterance. “God bless me!” murmured his lordship, “what an abominable country!” “Had we not better go to the drawing-room, my lord?” said the laird. “I think, Grizzie,” he went on, “you must get supper early. --And, Grizzie,” he added, rising, “mind you bring Lady Joan a cup of tea--if your mistress will excuse her,” he concluded, with a glance to his mother. Mistress Warlock was longing for a talk with Grizzie, and had no wish for Lady Joan’s presence at tea. “An old woman is bare company for a young one, Cosmo,” she said. His lordship sat as if he did not mean to move. “Will you not come, Lord Mergwain?” said the laird. “We had better go before the night gets worse.” “I will stay where I am.” “Excuse me, my lord, that can hardly be. Come, I will carry your wine. You will finish your bottle more at your ease there, knowing you have not to move again.”