“Muckle the same as usual, laird, an’ I thank ye,” answered Jeames, with a large smile. “I’m no jist upo’ the ro’d to be what they ca’ a millionaire, an’ I’m no jist upon the perris--something atween the twa, I’m thinkin’.” “I doobt there’s mair o’ ane’s in like condition, Jeames,” responded the laird, “or we wad na be comin’ to tax yer skeel at this present.” “Use yer freedom, laird; I’m yer heumble servan’. It wadna be a watch for the yoong laird? I kenna--” He stopped, and cast an anxious eye towards the window. “Na, na,” interrupted the laird, sorry to have raised even so much of a vain hope in the mind of the man, “I’m as far frae a watch as ye are frae the bank. But I hae here i’ my pooch a bit silly playock, ’at’s been i’ the hoose this mony a lang; an’ jist this last nicht it was pitten intil my heid there micht be some guid intl the chattel, seein’ i’ the tradition o’ the faimily it’s aye been hauden for siller. For my ain pairt I hae my doobts; but gien onybody here aboot can tell the trowth on ’t, yersel’ maun be the man; an’ sae I hae brought it, to ken what ye wad say til ’t.” “I’ll du my best to lowse yer doobt, laird,” returned Jeames. “Lat ’s hae a luik at the article.” The laird took the horse from his pocket, and handed it to him. Jeames regarded it for some time with interest, and examined it with care. “It’s a bonny bit o’ carved work,” he said; “--a bairnly kin’ o’ a thing for shape--mair like a timmer horsie; but whan ye come to the ornamentation o’ the same, it’s o’ anither character frae the roon’ spots o’ reid paint--an’ sae’s the sma’ rubies an’ stanes intil ’t. This has taen a heap o’ time, an’ painsfu’ labour--a deal mair nor some o’ ’s wad think it worth, I doobt! It’s the w’y o’ the haithens wi’ their graven eemages, but what for a horsie like this, I dinna ken. Hooever, that’s naither here nor there: ye didna come to me to speir hoo or what for it was made; it’s what is ’t made o’ ’s the question. It’s some yallow-like for siller; an’ it’s unco black, which is mair like it--but that may be wi’ dirt.--An’ dirt I’m thinkin’ it maun be, barkit intil the gravin’,” he went on, taking a tool and running the point of it along one of the fine lines. “Troth ohn testit, I wadna like to say what it was. But it’s an unco weicht!--I doobt--na, I mair nor doobt it canna be siller.” So saying he carried it to his table, put it down, and went to a corner-cupboard. Thence he brought a small stoppered phial. He gave it a little shake, and took out the stopper. It was followed by a dense white fume. With the stopper he touched the horse underneath, and looked closely at the spot. He then replaced the stopper and the bottle, and stood by the cupboard, gazing at nothing for a moment. Then turning to the laird, he said, with a peculiar look and a hesitating expression: