“I but thoucht the thing worth a thoucht, laird,” said Grizzie, humbly and apologetically; and with a kind “Guid nicht to ye, laird,” turned away, and went up the stairs to her room. The moment she was gone, the laird fell on his knees, and gave God thanks for the word he had received by his messenger--if indeed it pleased him that such Grizzie should prove to be. “O Lord,” he said, “with thee the future is as the present, and the past as the future. In the long past it may be thou didst provide this supply for my present need--didst even then prepare the answer to the prayers with which thou knewest I should assail thine ear. Never in all my need have I so much desired money as now for the good of my boy. But if this be but one of my hopes, not one of thy intents, give me the patience of a son, O Father.” With these words he rose from his knees, and taking his book, read and enjoyed into the dead of the night. That same night, Cosmo, who, again in his own chamber, was the more troubled with the trouble of his father that he was no longer with him in his room, dreamed a very odd, confused dream, of which he could give himself but little account in the morning--something about horses shod with shoes of gold, which they cast from their heels in a shoe-storm as they ran, and which anybody might have for the picking up. And throughout the dream was diffused an unaccountable flavour of the old villain, the sea-captain, although nowhere did he come into the story. When he came down to breakfast, his father told him, to his delight, that he was going to Muir of Warlock, and would like him to go with him. He ran like a hare up the waterside to let Mr. Simon know, and was back by the time his father was ready. CHAPTER XXI. THE WATCHMAKER.