It might have been from this same strain that the fortunate young man had also inherited that common sense which made him fairly level-headed, and not given as a rule to any over-mad taste.

The Arranstouns had been at Arranstoun since the time of those tiresome Picts and Scots—­and for generations they had raided their neighbors’ castles and lands, and carried off their cattle and wives and daughters and what not!  They had seized anything they fancied, and were a strong, ruthless, brutal race, not much vitiated by civilization.  These instincts of seizing what they wanted had gone on in them throughout eleven hundred years and more, and were there until this day, when Michael, the sole representative of this branch of the family, said “Damn!” and kicked a footstool across the room into the grate.

Mr. Johnson was quite aware of the peculiarity of the family.  Indeed, he was not surprised when Alexander Armstrong remarked upon it presently.  Alexander Armstrong was the old retainer, who now enjoyed the position of guide to the Castle upon the two days a week when tourists were allowed to walk through the state rooms, and look at the splendid carvings and armor and pictures, and the collection of plate.

Johnson had had time to glance over his master’s correspondence that morning, which, with characteristic recklessness, that gentleman had left upon his bed while he went to his bath, so his servant knew the cause of his bad temper, and had been prudent and kept a good deal out of the way.  But the news was so interesting, he felt Alexander Armstrong really ought to share the thrill.

“Mrs. Hatfield’s husband is dying,” he announced, as Armstrong, very diffidently, peeped through the window from the balcony, and then, seeing no one but his friend the valet, entered the room.

Alexander Armstrong spoke in broad Scotch, but I shall not attempt to transcribe this barbaric language; sufficient to tell you that he made the excuse for his intrusion by saying that he had wanted to get some order from the master about the tourists.

“We shan’t have any tourists when she’s installed here as mistress!” Mr. Johnson remarked sepulchrally.

Armstrong was heard to murmur that he did not know what Mr. Johnson meant!  This was too stupid!

“Why, I told you straight off Mrs. Hatfield’s husband is dying,” Johnson exclaimed, contemptuously.  “She wrote one of her mauve billy doos this morning, telling the master so, and suggesting they’d soon be able to be married and happy—­pretty cold-blooded, I call it, considering the poor man is not yet in his grave!”

Armstrong was almost knocked over by this statement; then he laughed—­and what he said meant in plain English that Mr. Johnson need not worry himself, for no Arranstoun had ever been known to be coerced into any course of conduct which he did not desire himself—­not being hampered by consideration for women, or by any consideration but his own will.  For the matter of that, a headstrong, ruthless race all of them and, as Mr. Johnson must be very well aware, their own particular master was a true chip of the old block.