Ford took the letter and read it attentively. Then giving it to his son, “Do you know the writing?” he asked.
“No, father,” replied Harry.
“And had this letter the Aberfoyle postmark?” inquired Simon Ford.
“Yes, like yours,” replied James Starr.
“What do you think of that, Harry?” said his father, his brow darkening.
“I think, father,” returned Harry, “that someone has had some interest in trying to prevent Mr. Starr from coming to the place where you invited him.”
“But who,” exclaimed the old miner, “who could have possibly guessed enough of my secret?” And Simon fell into a reverie, from which he was aroused by his wife.
“Let us begin, Mr. Starr,” she said. “The soup is already getting cold. Don’t think any more of that letter just now.”
On the old woman’s invitation, each drew in his chair, James Starr opposite to Madge—to do him honor—the father and son opposite to each other. It was a good Scotch dinner. First they ate “hotchpotch,” soup with the meat swimming in capital broth. As old Simon said, his wife knew no rival in the art of preparing hotchpotch. It was the same with the “cockyleeky,” a cock stewed with leeks, which merited high praise. The whole was washed down with excellent ale, obtained from the best brewery in Edinburgh.
But the principal dish consisted of a “haggis,” the national pudding, made of meat and barley meal. This remarkable dish, which inspired the poet Burns with one of his best odes, shared the fate of all the good things in this world—it passed away like a dream.