"Ay," said he, looking sideways on the burning fire, "Henry is a

good lad, a very good lad," said he. "You have heard, Mr.

Mackellar, that I had another son? I am afraid he was not so

virtuous a lad as Mr. Henry; but dear me, he's dead, Mr. Mackellar!

and while he lived we were all very proud of him, all very proud.

If he was not all he should have been in some ways, well, perhaps

we loved him better!" This last he said looking musingly in the

fire; and then to me, with a great deal of briskness, "But I am

rejoiced you do so well with Mr. Henry. You will find him a good

master." And with that he opened his book, which was the customary

signal of dismission. But it would be little that he read, and

less that he understood; Culloden field and the Master, these would

be the burthen of his thought; and the burthen of mine was an

unnatural jealousy of the dead man for Mr. Henry's sake, that had

even then begun to grow on me.

I am keeping Mrs. Henry for the last, so that this expression of my

sentiment may seem unwarrantably strong: the reader shall judge

for himself when I have done. But I must first tell of another

matter, which was the means of bringing me more intimate. I had

not yet been six months at Durrisdeer when it chanced that John

Paul fell sick and must keep his bed; drink was the root of his

malady, in my poor thought; but he was tended, and indeed carried

himself, like an afflicted saint; and the very minister, who came

to visit him, professed himself edified when he went away. The

third morning of his sickness, Mr. Henry comes to me with something

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