“Five year this snowfall, poor lad. He came trudgin’ to my door, barefoot, near dead wi’ cauld, near perisht wi’ hunger. I took him i’ th’ house an’ gied him bread an’ clauthes. I warmed his bones, an’ sin’ that day he has been wi’ me.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“I wad trust him wi’ my life,” was her answer. “Th’ poor lad is not over bright, an’ yet he’s na fool. Have na fear he will molest your valuables. He is th’ watchdog o’ Ben Cleuch.”
Aaron returning at this minute, the conversation turned into another channel.
The old professor could not get over his enthusiasm at being there in that quaint little Scottish country inn.
“To-morrow, boys!” he cried—“to-morrow shall be a great day. We’ll visit Queen Mary’s prison.”
“Let’s all go,” proposed Dick.
“That’s the thing!” exclaimed Brad eagerly. “We’ll make a grand excursion to the old castle. Will you do it, Nad—er—ah—Miss Budthorne?”
“I think it would be fine,” she answered. “What do you say, Dunbar?”
“I’m agreeable,” said Budthorne, sipping at his tea. “I’ve been keeping too close in the house. Perhaps if I get out I’ll feel much better.”