These were few enough and simple enough, though very sad.  The Earl—­ the last Earl of Cairnforth—­was a hopeless cripple for life.  All the consultations of all the doctors had resulted in that conclusion.  It was very unlikely he would ever be better than he was now physically, but mentally he was certainly “a’ richt”—­or “a’ there,” as the country-folk express it.  There was, as Mr. Cardross carefully explained to every body, not the slightest ground for supposing him deficient in intellect; on the contrary, his intellect seemed almost painfully acute.  The quickness with which he learned his lessons surpassed that of any boy of his age the minister had ever known; and he noticed every thing around him so closely, and made such intelligent remarks, that to talk with him was like talking with a grown man.  Before the first week was over Mr. Cardross began actually to enjoy the child’s company, and to look forward to lesson hours as the pleasantest hours of his day; for, since the Castle was close, the minister’s lot had been the almost inevitable lot of a country clergyman, whose parish contains many excellent people, who look up to him with the utmost reverence, and for whom he entertains the sincere respect that worth must always feel toward worth, but with whom he had very few intellectual sympathies.  In truth, since Mrs. Cardross died the minister had shut himself up almost entirely, and had scarcely had a single interest out of his own study until the earl came home to Cairnforth.

Now, after lessons, he would occasionally be persuaded to quit that beloved study, and take a walk along the loch side, or across the moor, to show his pupil the country of which he, poor little fellow! was owner and lord.  He did it at first out of pure kindness, to save the earl from the well-meant intrusion of neighbors, but afterward from sheer pleasure in seeing the boy so happy.  To him, mounted in Malcolm’s arms and brought for the first time into contact with the outer world, every thing was a novelty and delight.  And his quick perception let nothing escape him.  He seemed to watch lovingly all nature, from the grand lights and shadows which moved over the mountains, to the little moorland flowers which he made Malcolm stop to gather.  All living things too, from the young rabbit that scudded across their path, to the lark that rose singing up into the wide blue air—­he saw and noticed every thing.

But he never once said, what Helen, who, as often as her house duties allowed, delighted to accompany them on these expeditions, was always expecting he would say, Why had God given these soulless creatures legs to run and wings to fly, strength, health, and activity to enjoy existence, and denied all these things to him?  Denied them, not for a week, a month, a year, but for his whole lifetime—­a lifetime so short at best;—­“few of days, and full of trouble.”  Why could He not have made it a little more happy?