like to have with ye."

She remained standing, but paused in her employ to give me a wordless
attention as I went on:

"I am John Stair, Lord of Stair and Alton in the Mearns, and I want to
marry your ward, Marian Ingarrach."

She set the rest of the dishes before me as though not hearing my
speech, but I saw the corners of her mouth twitch a bit and, after
removing the cover of the haddie, she cast a glance over the top of my
head rather than directly at me, as she said:

"Ye're a cautious body, Lord Stair."

"I know what I intend to do," I answered, and there was a silence
between us for a space.

"Ye're a quare man," she broke forth presently, looking at me
humorously over her glasses. "Aye, a quare man! Ye come here with a
pack of riotous livers from Edinburgh, clap your eyes on my young lady
for the first time last night, and are for marryin' her off hand this
morning with no more to do over it than if marryin' was a daily
performance of yours."

I said no words, but regarded her with a smile.

"Sure," she went on, looking at me with great equanimity, "ye canna
soften my heart by your smilin'. Ye're a handsome man, my lord, and
ye've the strong way with ye that black men often have; but I've met in
with handsome men afore now, and the handsomer the more to be feared.
Dickenson was a dark man himself," she added, with a twinkle in her
eye. Another silence fell between us, as I watched her needles click in
and out and catch the firelight.

"Perhaps," she said presently, "ye'd like to have a little knowledge of
the girl you're wantin' for a wife."

"It's the matter which lies nearest my heart at the moment," I answered
her; and at this her voice and face became more serious, and she
stopped her knitting, looking directly at me as she spoke.

"There's little to tell," she began, "little that I could take
book-oath to, I mean, for one bad night in March, eighteen years back,
I heard a wail at the door, and opening it found a gipsy-hamper with
the baby inside. She was finely dressed and there was a note pinned on
her little shirt, which--wait a bit," she said, "I can show it ye." At
this she crossed the room to a wooden cupboard, unlocked the door, and
took from it a small box, the key of which she had in her bosom.
Opening this she handed me a slip of paper, upon which was written, in
a coarse male hand:

"HARRIET DICKENSON:

"If you will keep the child money will be sent for you and her. I