"Seventy-nine, sir. I was born in ninety-eight. That was when auld Bonnypart was agate of us and Nelson bashed him up."
"I dare say you have grandchildren by this time?"
"Bless you, ey, and great-grandchilder, and ten of them, too; and all well and hearty, thank the Lord!"
The sound of a bell, slowly tolling, came from across the dale. Hugh Ritson's face contracted, and his eyes fell.
"What bell is that?" he asked, in an altered tone.
"It's like to be the church bell. They're burying poor auld Matha's lass and her wee barn this morning."
Hugh Ritson did not touch his breakfast.
"Luke, close the shutters," he said, "and bring more candles."
He did not go out that day, but continued to walk to and fro in the darkened room. Toward nightfall he grew feverish, and rang frequently the bell that summoned the banksman. He had only some casual order, some message, some unimportant explanation.
At length the old man understood his purpose, and settled himself there for the night. They talked much during the early hours, and often the master laughed and jested. But the atmosphere that is breathed by a sleepless man is always heavy with sleep, and in spite of his efforts to keep awake, Luke dozed away in his chair. Then for hours there was a gloomy silence, broken only by the monotonous footfall within and the throb of the engine without.