d fro over the tiled floor.

"Sair Andrew's a harrd mon--a dour, harrd mon is Sair Andrew," he said
in a low, harsh voice, and with a wrinkling of face muscles which spoke
volumes. "I wudner cross his path unless I could help it. Harrd, sair,
harrd as nails. And wi' a grrasp on him for every penny!"

"Oho!" said Cleek in two different tones. "Mean, is he?"

"Mean wi' ye call it? Mean? There's no worrd ter expraiss what Sair
Andrew is at all. Not in the language, sair. But he's got a fine bailiff
ter manage th' land, and 'tis wi' him the people deal. Not wi' Sair
Andrew. Mistair Tavish, now--he's a fine chap, wi' a greeat hearrt an' a
helpin' hand for aiverybody. Mistair Tavish, now, he's a gentleman,
sair. Not a block er grranite, like th' old landlorrd!"

Cleek smiled. So even in these rocky fastnesses of the silent Highlands
a man liked his bit of gossip, and loosened his tongue to pass the time
of day with every stranger.

"Very interesting, Mr.----"

"Fairnish, Robairt Fairnish."

"Mr. Fairnish. And what about the rest of the family? Mean also?"

"Aw no, sair. Not Mistair Ross, at any rate, nor Miss Duggan, either,"
supplemented Mr. Fairnish, lighting his pipe with one horny hand and
leaning out over the bar the better to address Cleek. "Another ale,
sair?--cairtainly. Mr. Ross, now. A fine fellow, in spite of his
strrange ways and his wonderful apparatus. He's lit th' whole Castle
with electricity, sair; and Sair Andrew has no got ovair the effect o'
it yet. He does nought but grrumble and growl at Mistair Ross for th'
expainse and th' noosence of it, until, so I haird, th' Castle be no
pleasant spot to live in. And his wife, Lady Paula Duggan----"

Mr. Fairnish raised his hands and eyes in a very expressive gesture.

"You don't like the lady of the Castle, then, Mr. Fairnish?" interposed
Cleek, tossing off his ale and setting the empty tankard down upon the
bar in front of him.

"Like her, do ye say, sair? Like her! Show me th' pairson in th' whole
deestrict that does, and I'll tell him he's a liarr--if ye'll pardon my
language. There's nought in the countryside that does like her--a
black-haired, weecked foreigner like hersai'f--though ye'll no repeat my
worrds, I pray, or 'twould go harrd with Robairt Fairnish when next
rrent-day comes round. But never a bairnie that has ought to say that's
plaisant o' her--th' black-eyed witch-wummun! An' that's a fact. She
speaks a heathen tongue, sair, an' I never