“Will you be so good as tell me,” said the stranger, “if Mr Graeme is at home?”
The old woman sat stiffly erect, gazing at him with rigid terror.
“And where should the Laird be, I would like to ken,” said Janet, testily, “but just in Mossgray?”
The young man smiled. The light of the fire fell full upon his ruddy, animated face. Mrs Mense’s fears began to abate; he was no Appearance after all.
“Wha are ye?” asked the old woman, with some solemnity. “Tell me that you’re no Charlie Graeme?”
“My name is Halbert,” said the stranger. “It is my father you mean, and I am like him, I hear.”
Mrs Mense rose, and advancing to the young representative of the Graemes, looked earnestly into his face. The youth’s colour rose under the scrutiny, but the blush was accompanied by a good-humoured smile: the result was satisfactory.
“Guid grant that it prove what it looks—a true face,” said the old woman as she turned away. “Take him up to the young lady—I’ll tell Mossgray mysel; but no—bide a wee, Janet, I’ll show the gentleman the road.”
The penalty which he paid for entering the house by the kitchen door was the threading of various dark passages linked together by short flights of stairs. The old woman panted and lost her breath as she toiled on before him.
“These stairs must weary you,” said Halbert, kindly; “had you not better direct me, and I will go on myself.”