Henry coloured, bit his lips, but made no reply to this elegant address of his father’s, who continued, “I sent for you, sir, to have some conversation about this farm of Macglashan’s; so sit down there till I show you the plans.”

Hardly conscious of what he was doing, poor Henry gazed in silent confusion, as his father pointed out the various properties of this his future possession.  Wholly occupied in debating within himself how he was to decline the offer without a downright quarrel, he heard, without understanding a word, all the old gentleman’s plans and proposals for building dikes, draining moss, etc.; and, perfectly unconscious of what he was doing, yielded a ready assent to all the improvements that were suggested.

“Then as for the hoose and offices,-let me see,” continued the Laird, as he rolled up the plans of the farm, and pulled forth that of the dwelling-house from a bundle of papers.  “Ay, here it is.  By my troth, ye’ll be weel lodged here.  The hoose is in a manner quite new, for it has never had a brush upon it yet.  And there’s a byre—­fient a bit, if I would mean the best man i’ the country to sleep there himsel.’”

A pause followed, during which Glenfern was busily employed in poring over his parchment; then taking off his spectacles, and surveying his son, “And now, sir, that you’ve heard a’ the oots an’ ins o’ the business, what think you your farm should bring you at the year’s end?”

“I—­I—­I’m sure—­I—­I don’t know,” stammered poor Henry, awakening from his reverie.

“Come, come, gi’e a guess.”

“I really—­I cannot—­I haven’t the least idea.”

“I desire, sir, ye’ll say something directly, that I may judge whether or no ye ha’e common sense,” cried the old gentleman angrily.

“I should suppose-I imagine-I don’t suppose it will exceed seven or eight hundred a year,” said his son, in the greatest trepidation at this trial of his intellect.

“Seven or eight hunder deevils!” cried the incensed Laird, starting up and pushing his papers from him.  “By my faith, I believe ye’re a born idiot!  Seven or eight hunder pounds!” repeated he, at least a dozen times, as he whisked up and down the little apartment with extraordinary velocity, while poor Henry affected to be busily employed in gathering up the parchments with which the floor was strewed.

“I’ll tell you what, sir,” continued he, stopping; “you’re no fit to manage a farm; you’re as ignorant as yon coo, an’ as senseless as its cauf.  Wi’ gude management, Clackandow should produce you twahunder and odd pounds yearly; but in your guiding I doot if it will yield the half.  However, tak’ it or want it, mind me, sir, that it’s a’ ye ha’e to trust to in my lifetime; so ye may mak’ the maist o’t.”