"Weel, weel," murmured Miss Macpherson, and taking off the lid she set a knife into a piece of meat and with a spoon she emptied the gravy upon a plate.
"Draw in your stool," she said, and laid the bannocks beside him. Then after a momentary hesitation she laid a round black bottle upon the table. "It is from Laggan way," she said.
"A bonny country," he replied, and without delay set to with the greatest zest.
Meanwhile Rob drew near the fire, and laid a peat or two upon the dying glow. He suddenly remembered how near he had been to falling the prey to his aunt's schemes, and yet to look at her face one would have said she suffered no disappointment or resentment. There was a strong vein of fatalism in Miss Macpherson.
When the stranger had finished eating he pushed back his stool, and wiped his mouth very genteelly with a kerchief.
"And now, sir," said he, addressing Rob, "what is this talk of the wars?"
"Aye," re-echoed Miss Macpherson, brightening, "ye may well ask that, Mister..." she hesitated.
"No matter," he replied quickly, "my name will keep."
"I want to fight for the Prince," said Rob, sturdily; "I have this claymore." And he brought it from the corner where it lay.
One look was sufficient for the stranger.