Agreeably to his promise, Mr M'Arthur again called on that gentleman, at the expiry of about a week, and having previously satisfied himself of the value of the property in dependence, concluded the purchase, and paid down the money.
On the very same day, he went down again to Bellevue, which was now his, the identical house which had so much struck his fancy when a boy.
On this occasion, he was again attended by the old man of whom we have already spoken.
"Well," said Mr M'Arthur, on the latter approaching him, "I have concluded the purchase for this place. The money is paid, and it is now mine."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir, and long may you live to enjoy it!" replied the old man.
"Thank you, my friend—thank you. What's your name?"
"James Moffat, sir."
"Ay, well, James," continued Mr M'Arthur, "do you recollect of chasing a little barelegged Highland boy out of these grounds one day, about—let me see—ay, I daresay it will be about thirty years since? See, there," he added, pointing to a particular piece of ground—"there is the very spot on which he stood when you discovered him; and there" (pointing to a particular part of the fence which enclosed the grounds) "is precisely the place where he escaped you. Do you recollect of this, James?"
The old man thought for a moment; then looking in Mr M'Arthur's face, and smiling, "Yes, sir, now that you remind me of it, I do recollect the circumstance, and very distinctly. The little fellow had come, I thought, to carry off some of our hens and chickens, as we were then, and are yet, very much annoyed by young depredators of that description. But may I ask your honour how your honour happens to know so well about that affair?"
"Troth, James," replied Mr M'Arthur, laughing, "I have good cause to know well about it; for that boy was no other than myself, James."