The laird started as if one had struck him in the face. The blood reddened his forehead, and his old eyes flashed like two stars. All the battle-fury of the old fighting race seemed to swell up from ancient fountains amongst the unnumbered roots of his being, and rush to his throbbing brain. He clenched his withered fist, drew himself up straight, and made his knees strong. For a moment he felt as in the prime of life and its pride. The next his fist relaxed, his hand fell by his side, and he bowed his head. “The Lord hae mercy upo’ me!” he murmured. “I was near takin’ the affairs o’ ane o’ his into _my_ han’s!” He covered his face with his wrinkled hands, and the girl stood beside him in awe-filled silence. But she did not quite comprehend, and was troubled at seeing him stand thus motionless. In the trembling voice of one who would comfort her superior, she said, “Dinna greit, laird. He’ll be better, I’m thinkin’, afore ye win till ’im. It was Grannie gart me come--no him.” Speechless the laird turned, and without even entering the house, walked away to go to the village. He had reached the valley-road before he discovered that Agnes was behind him. “Dinna ye come, Aggie,” he said; “ye may be wantit at hame.” “Ye dinna think I wad ley ye, laird!--’cep’ ye was to think fit to sen’ me frae ye. I’m maist as guid ’s a man to gang wi’ ye--wi’ the advantage o’ bein’ a wuman, as my mither tells me:”--She called her grandmother, _mother_.--“ye see we can daur mair nor ony man--but, Guid forgie me!--no mair nor the yoong laird whan he flang his _Cæsar_ straucht i’ the maister’s face this verra mornin’.” The laird stopped, turned sharply round, and looked at her. “What did he that for?” he said. “’Cause he ca’d yersel’ a fule,” answered the girl, with the utmost simplicity, and no less reverence. The laird drew himself up once more, and looked twenty years younger. But it was not pride that inspired him, nor indignation, but the father’s joy at finding in his son his champion. “Mony ane’s ca’d me that, I weel believe, lassie, though no to my ain face or that o’ my bairn. But whether I deserve ’t or no, nane but ane kens. It’s no by the word o’ man I stan’ or fa’; but it’s hoo my maister luiks upo’ my puir endeevour to gang by the thing he says. Min’ this, lassie--lat fowk say as they like, but du ye as _he_ likes, an’, or a’ be dune, they’ll be upo’ their k-nees to ye. An’ sae they’ll be yet to my bairn--though I’m some tribbled he sud hae saired the maister--e’en as he deserved.” “What cud he du, sir? It was na for himsel’ he strack! An’ syne he never muved an inch, but stud there like a rock, an’ liftit no a han’ to defen’ himsel’, but jist loot the maister tak his wull o’ ’im.”