“Yes, laird, Colin was vera wrong there.  He knows it now.”

“What is he doing in such a grand house?  How does he live?”

“He is an artist—­a vera great one, I should say.”

“He paints pictures for a living!  He!  A Crawford o’ Traquare!  I’ll no believe it, Tallisker.”

“There’s naught to fret about, laird.  You’ll ken that some day.  Then his wife had money.”

“His wife!  Sae he is married.  That is o’ a piece wi’ the rest.  Wha is she?”

“He married an American—­a Boston lady.”

Then the laird’s passion was no longer controllable, and he said some things the dominie was very angry at.

“Laird,” he answered, “Mrs. Colin Crawford is my friend.  You’ll no daur to speak any way but respectful o’ her in my presence.  She is as good as any Crawford that ever trod the heather.  She came o’ the English Hampdens.  Whar will ye get better blood than that?”

“No Hampdens that ever lived—­”

“Whist!  Whist, laird!  The Crawfords are like a’ ither folk; they have twa legs and twa hands.”

“He should hae married a Scots lass, though she had carried a milking-pail.”

“Laird, let me tell you there will be nae special heaven for the Gael.  They that want to go to heaven by themsel’s arena likely to win there at a’.  You may as well learn to live with ither folk here; you’ll hae to do it to a’ eternity.”

“If I get to heaven, Dominie Tallisker, I’ll hae special graces for the place.  I’m no going to put mysel’ in a blazing passion for you to-night.  Yon London woman has bewitched you.  She’s wanting to come to the Keep, I’ll warrant.”

“If ye saw the hame she has you wouldna warrant your ain word a minute longer, laird.  And I’m sure I dinna see what she would want to hae twa Crawfords to guide for.  One is mair than enough whiles.  It’s a wonder to me how good women put up wi’ us at all!”

“Humff!” said the laird scornfully.  “Too many words on a spoiled subject.”

“I must say one mair, though.  There is a little lad, a bonnie, brave, bit fellow, your ain grandson, Crawford.”

“An American Crawford!” And the laird laughed bitterly.  “A foreigner! an alien! a Crawford born in England!  Guid-night, Tallisker!  We’ll drop the subject, an it please you.”

Tallisker let it drop.  He had never expected the laird to give in at the first cry of “Surrender.”  But he reflected that the winter was coming, and that its long nights would give plenty of time for thought and plenty of opportunities for further advocacy.  He wrote constantly to Colin and his wife, perhaps oftener to Mrs. Crawford than to the young laird, for she was a woman of great tact and many resources, and Tallisker believed in her.