The assembled guests, who had not yet been able to take their departure, remained in the drawing-room in a sort of restless solemnity peculiar to seasons of collateral affliction, where all seek to highten the effect upon others, and shift the lesson from themselves.  Various were the surmises and peculations as to the cause of the awful transition that had just taken place.

“Glenfern was nae like a man that wad hae gaen aff in this gate,” said one.

“I dinna ken,” said another; “I’ve notic’d a chainge on Glenfern for a gey while noo.”

“I agree wi’ you, sir,” said a third.  “In my mind Glenfern’s been droopin’ very sair ever since the last tryst.”

“At Glenfern’s time o’ life it’s no surprisin’,” remarked a fourth, who felt perfectly secure of being fifteen years his junior.

“Glenfern was na that auld neither,” retorted a fifth, whose conscience smote him with being years his senior.

“But he had a deal o’ vexation frae his faemily,” said an elderly bachelor.

“Ye offen see a hale stoot man, like oor puit freend, gang like the snuff o’ a cannel,” coughed up a pthisicky gentleman.

“He was aye a tume, boss-looking man ever since I mind him,” wheezed out a swollen asthmatic figure.

“An’ he took nae care o’ himsel’,” said he Laird of Pettlechass.  “His diet was nae what it should hae been at his time o’ life.  An’ he was oot an’ in, up an’ doon, in a’ wathers, wat an’ dry.”

“Glenfern’s doings had naething to du wi’ his death,” said an ancient gentlewoman with solemnity.  “They maun ken little wha ne’er heard the bod-word of the family.”  And she repeated in Gaelic words to the following effect:—­

   “When Loehdow shall turn to a lin, [1]
    In Glenfern ye’ll hear the din;
    When frae Benenck they shool the sna’,
    O’er Glenfern the leaves will fa’;
    When foreign geer grows on Benenck tap,
    Then the fir tree will be Glenfern’s hap.”

[1] Cataract.

“An’ noo, ma’am, will ye be sae gude as point oot the meanin’ o’ this freet,” said an incredulous-looking member of the company; “for when I passed Lochdow this mornin’ I neither saw nor heard o’ a lin; an’ frae this window we can a’ see Benenck wi’ his white night-cap on; an’ he wad hae little to do that wad try to shoal it aff.”

“It’s neither o’ the still water nor the stay brae that the word was spoke,” replied the dame, with a disdainful frown; “they tak’ nae part in our doings:  but kent ye nae that Lochdow himsel’ had tined his sight in a cataract; an’ is nae there dule an’ din eneuch in Glenfern the day?  An’ kent ye nae that Benenck had his auld white pow shaven, an’ that he’s gettin’ a jeezy frae Edinburgh?—­an’ I’se warran’ he’ll be in his braw wig the very day that Glenfern’ll be laid in his deal coffin.”