ding in the
middle of the room between him and the open door. The preacher,
snug behind the table, scarcely endeavoured to conceal the smile
with which he took no notice of Sir Gilbert. The laird rose in the
perturbation of mingled anger and unpreparedness.

"Ah!" he said, but it was only a sound, not a word, "to what--may I
ask--have I--I have not the honour of your acquaintance, Mr.--Mr.--"
Here he looked again at the card he held, fumbled for and opened a
double eyeglass, then with deliberation examined the name upon it,
thus gaining time by rudeness, and gathering his force for more,
while Gibbie remained as unembarrassed as if he had been standing to
his tailor for his measure. "Mr.--ah, I see! Galbraith, you
say.--To what, Mr., Mr."--another look at the card--"Galbraith, do I
owe the honour of this unexpected--and--and--I must
say--un--looked-for visit--and at such an unusual hour for making a
business call--for business, I presume, it must be that brings you,
seeing I have not the honour of the slightest acquaintance with
you?"

He dropped his eyeglass with a clatter against his waistcoat, threw
the card into his finger-glass, raised his pale eyes, and stared at
Sir Gilbert with all the fixedness they were capable of. He had
already drunk a good deal of wine, and it was plain he had, although
he was far from being overcome by it. Gibbie answered by drawing
from the breast-pocket of his coat the paper he had written, and
presenting it like a petition. Mr. Galbraith sneered, and would not
have touched it had not his eye caught the stamp, which from old
habit at once drew his hand. From similar habit, or perhaps to get
it nearer the light, he sat down. Gibbie stood, and Fergus stared
at him with insolent composure. The laird read, but not aloud: I,
Gilbert Galbraith, Baronet, hereby promise and undertake to transfer
to Miss Galbraith, only daughter of Thomas Galbraith, Esq., on the
day when she shall be married to Donal Grant, Master of Arts, the
whole of the title deeds of the house and lands of Glashruach, to
have and to hold as hers, with absolute power to dispose of the same
as she may see fit. Gilbert Galbraith, Old House of Galbraith,
Widdiehill, March, etc., etc.

The laird stretched his neck like a turkeycock, and gobbled
inarticulately, threw the paper to Fergus, and turning on his chair,
glowered at Gibbie. Then suddenly starting to his feet, he cried,

"What do you mean, you rascal, by