rt of a whine of hatred. "But he did! A fine employ it
was: chapping at the man's door, and crying 'boo' in his lum, and
puttin' poother in his fire, and pee-oys[1] in his window; till the man
thought it was Auld Hornie was come seekin' him. Weel, to mak' a lang
story short, Wully gaed gyte. At the hinder end they couldna get him
frae his knees, but he just roared and prayed and grat straucht on, till
he got his release. It was fair murder, a'body said that. Ask John
Paul--he was brawly ashamed o' that game, him that's sic a Christian
man! Grand doin's for the Master o' Ball'ntrae!" I asked him what the
Master had thought of it himself. "How would I ken?" says he. "He never
said naething." And on again in his usual manner of banning and
swearing, with every now and again a "Master of Ballantrae" sneered
through his nose. It was in one of these confidences that he showed me
the Carlisle letter, the print of the horse-shoe still stamped in the
paper. Indeed, that was our last confidence; for he then expressed
himself so ill-naturedly of Mrs. Henry that I had to reprimand him
sharply, and must thenceforth hold him at a distance.

My old lord was uniformly kind to Mr. Henry; he had even pretty ways of
gratitude, and would sometimes clap him on the shoulder and say, as if
to the world at large: "This is a very good son to me." And grateful he
was, no doubt, being a man of sense and justice. But I think that was
all, and I am sure Mr. Henry thought so. The love was all for the dead
son. Not that this was often given breath to; indeed, with me but once.
My lord had asked me one day how I got on with Mr. Henry, and I had told
him the truth.

"Ay," said he, looking sideways on the burning fire, "Henry is a good
lad, a very good lad," said he. "You have heard, Mr. Mackellar, that I
had another son? I am afraid he was not so virtuous a lad as Mr. Henry;
but dear me, he's dead, Mr. Mackellar! and while he lived we were all
very proud of him, all very proud. If he was not all he should have been
in some ways, well, perhaps we loved him better!" This last he said
looking musingly in the fire; and then to me, with a great deal of
briskness, "But I am rejoiced you do so well with Mr. Henry. You will
find him a good master." And with that he opened his book, which was the
customary signal of dismission. But it would be little that he read, and
less that he understood; Culloden field and the Master, these would be
the burthen of his tho