“Do not call the phantom my father!” said Sir John, interrupting him.

“Well then, the thing that was so like him,” said my gudesire; “he spoke of my coming back to see him this time twelvemonth, and it’s a weight on my conscience.”

“Aweel then,” said Sir John, “if you be so much distressed in mind, you may speak to our minister of the parish; he is a douce man, regards the honour of our family, and the mair that he may look for some patronage from me.”

Wi’ that, my father readily agreed that the receipt should be burnt; and the laird threw it into the chimney with his ain hand.  Burn it would not for them, though; but away it flew up the lum, wi’ a lang train of sparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib.

My gudesire gaed down to the manse, and the minister, when he had heard the story, said it was his real opinion that, though my gudesire had gane very far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet as he had refused the devil’s arles (for such was the offer of meat and drink), and had refused to do homage by piping at his bidding, he hoped that, if he held a circumspect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advantage by what was come and gane.  And, indeed, my gudesire, of his ain accord, lang forswore baith the pipes and the brandy—­it was not even till the year was out, and the fatal day past, that he would so much as take the fiddle or drink usquebaugh or tippenny.

Sir John made up his story about the jackanape as he liked himsell; and some believe till this day there was no more in the matter than the filching nature of the brute.  Indeed, ye ’ll no hinder some to thread that it was nane o’ the auld Enemy that Dougal and Hutcheon saw in the laird’s room, but only that wanchancie creature the major, capering on the coffin; and that, as to the blawing on the laird’s whistle that was heard after he was dead, the filthy brute could do that as weel as the laird himsell, if no better.  But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first came out by the minister’s wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were baith in the moulds.  And then my gudesire, wha was failed in his limbs, but not in his judgment or memory,—­at least nothing to speak of,—­was obliged to tell the real narrative to his freends, for the credit of his good name.  He might else have been charged for a warlock.

The shades of evening were growing thicker around us as my conductor finished his long narrative with this moral:  “You see, birkie, it is nae chancy thing to tak’ a stranger traveller for a guide when you are in an uncouth land.”

“I should not have made that inference,” said I.  “Your grandfather’s adventure was fortunate for himself, whom it saves from ruin and distress; and fortunate for his landlord.”