“Well, you see,” returned the laird, with a small smile, “I, like yourself, am neither pure highlander nor pure lowlander, and the natural consequence is, I am not very sure whether I believe in it or not. I have heard stories difficult to explain.” “Still,” said Cosmo, “my lord would be more to blame than me, for no man with a good conscience would have been so frightened as that, even if it had been his wraith.” “That may be true;--still, a man cannot help being especially sorry anything should happen to a stranger in his house. You and I, Cosmo, would have our house a place of refuge.--But you had better go to bed now. There is no reason in tiring two people, when one is enough.” “But, papa, I got up because I was so cold I could not sleep. If you will let me, I would much rather sit with you. I shall be much more comfortable here.” That his son should have been cold in the night distressed the laird. He felt as if, for the sake of strangers, he had neglected his own--the specially sent. He would have persuaded Cosmo to go to his father’s bed, which was in a warmer room, but the boy begged so to be allowed to remain that he yielded. They had talked in a low voice for fear of disturbing the sleeper, and now were silent. Cosmo rolled himself in his plaid, lay down at his father’s feet, and was soon fast asleep: with his father there, the chamber had lost all its terrors, and was just like any other home-feeling room of the house. Many a time in after years did that night, that room, that fire, and the feeling of his father over his head, while the bad lord lay snoring within the dark curtains, rise before him; and from the memory he would try to teach himself, that, if he were towards his great Father in his house as he was then towards his earthly father in his, he would never fear anything. To know one’s-self as safe amid storm and darkness, amid fire and water, amid disease and pain, even during the felt approach of death, is to be a Christian, for that is how the Master felt in the hour of darkness, because he knew it a fact. All night long, at intervals, the old man moaned, and every now and then would mutter sentences unintelligible to the laird, but sown with ugly, sometimes fearful words. In the gray of the morning he woke. “Bring me brandy,” he cried in a voice of discontent. The laird rose and went to him. When he saw the face above him, a horror came upon his--a look like that they found frozen on it. “Who are you?” he gasped. “Where am I?” “You came here in the storm last night, my lord,” said the laird. “Cursed place! I never had such horrible dreams in my life. Where am I--do you hear? Why don’t you answer me?” “You are at Castle Warlock, my lord,” replied the laird. At this he shrieked, and, throwing off the clothes, sprung from the bed. “I entreat you, my lord, to lie down again. You were very ill in the night,” expostulated the laird.