A suitable establishment had accordingly been provided—­more servants, and a lady housekeeper or governante, who took all external charge of the child, while the personal care of him was left, as before, to his nurse, Mrs. Campbell, now wholly devoted to him, for at seven years old her own boy had died.  He had another attendant, to whom, with a curious persistency, he had strongly attached himself ever since his babyhood—­young Malcolm Campbell, Neil Campbell’s brother, who was saved by clinging to the keel of the boat when the late Lord Cairnforth was drowned.  Beyond these, whose fond fidelity knew no bounds, there was hardly need of any other person to take charge of the little earl, except a tutor, and that office Mr. Menteith entreated Mr. Cardross to accept.

It was a doubtful point with the minister.  He shrank from assuming any new duty, his daily duties being now made only too heavy by the loss of the wife who had shared and lightened them all.  But he named the matter to Helen, whom he had lately got into the habit of consulting—­she was such a wise little woman for her age—­and Helen said anxiously, “Papa, try.”  Besides, there were six boys to be brought up, and put into the world somehow, and the Manse income was small, and the salary offered by Mr. Manteith very considerable.  So when, the second time, Helen’s great soft eyes implored silently, “Papa, please try,” the minister kissed her, went into his study and wrote to Edinburg his acceptance of the office of tutor to Lord Cairnforth.

What sort of office it would turn out—­what kind of instruction he was expected to give, or how much the young earl was capable of receiving, he had not the least idea; but he resolved that, in any case, he would do his duty, and neither man nor minister could be expected to do more.

In pursuance of this resolution, he roused himself that sunny June morning, when he would far rather have sat over his study-fire and let the world go on without him—­as he felt it would, easily enough—­ and walked down to the Castle, where, for the first time these ten years, windows were opened and doors unbarred, and the sweet light and warm air of day let in upon those long-shut rooms, which seemed, in their dumb, inanimate way, glad to be happy again—­glad to be made of use once more.  Even the portraits of the late earl and countess—­he in his Highland dress, and she in her white satin and pearls—­both so young and bright, as they looked on the day they were married, seemed to gaze back at each other from either side the long dining-room, as if to say, rejoicing, “Our son is coming home.”

“Have you seen the earl?” said Mr. Cardross to one of the new servants who attended him round the rooms, listening respectfully to all the remarks and suggestions as to furniture and the like which Mr. Menteith had requested him to make.  The minister was always specially popular with servants and inferiors of every sort, for he possessed, in a remarkable degree, that best key to their hearts, the gentle dignity which never needs to assert a superiority that is at once felt and acknowledged.