“When you commence your improvements, you will require many laborers—would not the Macalpines do? We were thinking of taking Flora to be one of our maids at Woodsmuir, you know—other people, no doubt, would do the same. What do you think?”
Mr. Ferguson spent a moment in deliberation; then he looked up to Mr. Coulter inquiringly.
“Not a bad idea,” said the agriculturist.
“I was thinking of that myself,” said Mr. Ferguson. “There is not a very great number of them: we shall surely be able to keep them in the district; and there is always the hope,” the good factor endeavored to look very sanguine and cheerful—”there is always the hope of Mr. Archibald’s return.”
No one made any response; saving himself and Mrs. Catherine, no one was sanguine on that subject: they were very glad to join in good wishes for the broken laird; but saw all the improbabilities in a stronger light than his more solicitous friends could do.
“If he does,” said Mr. Lumsden, “if he ever can redeem the estate again, I suppose the Macalpines are safe.”
Mr. Ferguson looked with gratitude at the minister. It was pleasant to have his hope homologated even so slightly. “Safe? ay, without doubt or fear! there is not a kinder heart in all Scotland. How many men will there be, Mr. Lumsden? how many able men?”
Mr. Lumsden entered into a calculation. We need not follow him through the list of Duncans, and Donalds, and Rodericks; there were eleven fathers of families. Duncan Roy and his sister Flora were orphans; besides, there were six or seven young men, and a plentiful undergrowth of boys of all ages and sizes.
“Say sixteen men,” said Mr. Ferguson, “the rest could be herds, or—there is always work for these halflin lads. What do you say, Mr. Coulter?”
Mr. Coulter’s deliverance was favorable. Mrs. Catherine had urgent need of a plough-man, she suddenly discovered. Mrs. Coulter thought she “could do with” another maid. The Macalpines were in a fair way of being settled.