“Stop a minute, Malcolm.”

At the sound of that voice, which was not an infant’s, though it was thin, and sharp, and unnatural rather for a boy, the big Highlander paused immediately.

“Hold me up higher; I want to look at the loch.”

“Yes, my lord.”

This, then—­this poor little deformed figure, with every limb shrunken and useless, and every joint distorted, the head just able to sustain itself and turn feebly from one side to the other, and the thin white hands piteously twisted and helpless-looking—­this, then, was the Earl of Cairnforth.

“It’s a bonnie loch, Malcolm.”

“It looks awful’ bonnie the day, my lord.”

“And,” almost in a whisper, “was it just there my father was drowned?”

“Yes, my lord.”

No one spoke while the large, intelligent eyes, which seemed the principal feature of the thin face, that rested against Malcolm’s shoulder, looked out intently upon the loch.

Mrs. Campbell pulled her veil down and wept a little.  People said Neil Campbell had not been the best of husbands to her, but he was her husband; and she had never been back in Cairnforth till now, for her son had lived, died, and been buried away in Edinburg.

At last Mr. Menteith suggested that the kirk bell was beginning to ring.

“Very well; put me into the carriage.”

Malcolm placed him, helpless as an infant, in a corner of the silken-padded coach, fitted with cushions especially suited for his comfort.  There he sat, in his black velvet coat and point-lace collar, with silk stockings and dainty shoes upon the poor little feet that never had walked, and never would walk, in this world.  The one bit of him that could be looked at without pain was his face, inherited from his beautiful mother.  It was wan, pale, and much older than his years, but it was a sweet face—­a lovely face; so patient, thoughtful—­ nay, strange to say, content.  You could not look at it without a certain sense of peace, as if God, in taking away so much had given something—­which not many people have—­something which was the divine answer to the minister’s prayer over the two-days-old child—­ “Thy will be done.”

“Are you comfortable, my lord?”

“Quite, thank you, Mr. Menteith.  Stop—­where are you going, Malcolm?”

“Just to the kirk, and I’ll be there as soon as your lordship.”

“Very well,” said the little earl, and watched with wistful eyes the tall Highlander striding across brushwood and heather, leaping dikes and clearing fences—­the very embodiment of active vigorous youth.