“Father,” said Uncle Adam, “I would like one word with you in private.”

I rose to go.

“Set down upon your hinderlands,” cried my grandfather, almost savagely.  “If Aadam has anything to say, let him say it.  It’s me that has the money here; and by Gravy!  I’m goin’ to be obeyed.”

Upon this scurvy encouragement, it appeared that my uncle had no remark to offer:  twice challenged to “speak out and be done with it,” he twice sullenly declined; and I may mention that about this period of the engagement, I began to be sorry for him.

“See here, then, Jeannie’s yin!” resumed my grandfather.  “A’m goin’ to give ye a set-off.  Your mither was always my fav’rite, for A never could agree with Aadam.  A like ye fine yoursel’; there’s nae noansense aboot ye; ye’ve a fine nayteral idee of builder’s work; ye’ve been to France, where they tell me they’re grand at the stuccy.  A splendid thing for ceilin’s, the stuccy! and it’s a vailyable disguise, too; A don’t believe there’s a builder in Scotland has used more stuccy than me.  But as A was sayin’, if ye’ll follie that trade, with the capital that A’m goin’ to give ye, ye may live yet to be as rich as mysel’.  Ye see, ye would have always had a share of it when A was gone; it appears ye’re needin’ it now; well, ye’ll get the less, as is only just and proper.”

Uncle Adam cleared his throat.  “This is very handsome, father,” said he; “and I am sure Loudon feels it so.  Very handsome, and as you say, very just; but will you allow me to say that it had better, perhaps, be put in black and white?”

The enmity always smouldering between the two men at this ill-judged interruption almost burst in flame.  The stonemason turned upon his offspring, his long upper lip pulled down, for all the world, like a monkey’s.  He stared a while in virulent silence; and then “Get Gregg!” said he.

The effect of these words was very visible.  “He will be gone to his office,” stammered my uncle.

“Get Gregg!” repeated my grandfather.

“I tell you, he will be gone to his office,” reiterated Adam.

“And I tell ye, he’s takin’ his smoke,” retorted the old man.

“Very well, then,” cried my uncle, getting to his feet with some alacrity, as upon a sudden change of thought, “I will get him myself.”

“Ye will not!” cried my grandfather.  “Ye will sit there upon your hinderland.”

“Then how the devil am I to get him?” my uncle broke forth, with not unnatural petulance.

My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at his son with the malice of a schoolboy; then he rang the bell.

“Take the garden key,” said Uncle Adam to the servant; “go over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is there (he generally sits under the red hawthorn), give him old Mr. Loudon’s compliments, and will he step in here for a moment?”

“Mr. Gregg the lawyer!” At once I understood (what had been puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather and the alarm of my poor uncle:  the stonemason’s will, it was supposed, hung trembling in the balance.