“And so Mr. Napier of Eastleys is dead?” she began.

“Yes,” answered the writer, perhaps with a portion of cheerfulness, seeing he was that gentleman’s agent, or “doer,” as it was then called; a word far more expressive, as many clients can testify, at least after they are “done;” and seeing also that a dead client is not finally “done” until his affairs are wound up and consigned to the green box.

“And wha is his heir, think ye?” continued his questioner.

“Why, Charles Napier, his nephew,” answered the writer, somewhat carelessly.

“I’m no just a’thegither sure of that, Mr. Dallas,” said she, with another effort at dignity, which was unfortunately qualified by a knowing wink.

“The deil’s in the woman,” was the sharp retort, as the writer opened his eyes wider than he had done since he laid down his parchments.

“The deil’s in me or no in me,” said she; “but this I’m sure of, that Henrietta Hislop—­that’s our Henney, ye ken—­the brawest and bonniest lass in Toddrick’s Wynd (and that’s no saying little), is the lawful heiress of Mr. John Napier of Eastleys, and was called Henrietta after her mother.”

“The honest woman’s red wud,” said the writer, laughing.  “Why, Mrs. Hislop, I always took you for a shrewd, sensible woman.  Do you really think that, because you bore a child to Mr. John Napier, therefore Henney Hislop is the heiress of her reputed father?”

“Me bear a bairn to Mr. Napier!” cried the offended client.  “Wha ever said I was the mother of Henney Hislop?”

“Everybody,” replied he.  “We never doubted it, though I admit she has none of your features.”

“Everybody is a leear, then,” rejoined the woman tartly.  “There’s no a drap of blood in the lassie’s body can claim kindred with me or mine; though, if it were so, it would be no dishonour, for the Hislops were lairds of Highslaps in Ayrshire at the time of Malcolm Mucklehead.”

“And whose daughter, by the mother’s side, is she, then?” asked he, as his curiosity began to wax stronger.

“Ay, you have now your hand on the cocked egg,” replied she, with a look of mystery.  “The other was a wind ane, and you’ve just to sit a little and you’ll see the chick.”

The writer settled himself into attention, and the good dame thought it proper, like some preachers who pause two or three minutes (the best part of their discourse) after they have given out the text, to raise a wonder how long they intend to hold their tongue, and thereby produce attention, to retain her speech until she had attained the due solemnity.

“It is now,” she began, in a low mysterious voice, “just sixteen years come June,—­and if ye want the day, it will be the 15th,—­and if ye want the hour, we may say eleven o’clock at night, when I was making ready for my bed,—­I heard a knock at my door, and the words of a woman, ’Oh, Mrs. Hislop, Mrs. Hislop!’ So I ran and opened the door; and wha think ye I saw but Jean Graham, Mr. Napier’s cook, with een like twa candles, and her mouth as wide as if she had been to swallow the biggest sup of porridge that ever crossed ploughman’s craig?”