"Na, na; he'll bide wi' the McFarlanes. They are rich folk; but siller is nae sin—an' it be clean-won siller."
"Then why did Uncle McFarlane write to you, father?"
"He wrote concerning the lad's pecuniary matters, Christine. Young Donald will need gude guiding; and he is my sister Jessie's only bairn—blood is thicker than water, ye'll allow that—and Donald is o' gentle blood. I'm no saying that's everything; but it is gude to come o' a gude kind."
"The McFarlanes have aye been for the pope and the Stuarts," said James, a little scornfully. "They were 'out' in the '79'; and they would pin the white cockade on to-morrow, if there was ever a Stuart to bid them do it."
"Maybe they would, James. Hielandmen hae a way o' sticking to auld friends. There's Camerons I wadna go bail for, if Prince Charlie could come again; but let that flea stick to the wa'. And the McFarlanes arena exactly papist noo; the twa last generations hae been 'Piscopals—that's ane step ony way towards the truth. Luther mayna be John Knox, but they'll win up to him some time, dootless they will."
"How old is young McFarlane?" asked James.
"He is turned twenty—a braw lad, his father says. I hae ne'er seen him, but he's Jessie's bairn, and my heart gaes out to meet him."
"Why did you not tell me on Saturday, father? I could have spoken for Maggie Maclean to help me put the house in order."
"I didna get the letter till the evening post. It was most as good as Sabbath then. Housecleaning is an unco temptation to women-folk, so I keepit the news till the Sabbath sun was weel set."
During this conversation James Blackie's heart had become heavy with some sad presentiment of trouble, such as arise very naturally in similar circumstances. As a poet says,