face. The lawyer and she stood aside, and made way for a big, stalwart
young Highlander of about one-and-twenty or thereabouts, who carried in
his arms, very gently and carefully, wrapped in a plaid, even although
it was such a mild spring day, what looked like a baby, or a very young
child.

"Stop a minute, Malcolm."

At the sound of that voice, which was not an infant's, though it was
thin, and sharp, and unnatural rather for a boy, the big Highlander
paused immediately.

"Hold me up higher; I want to look at the loch."

"Yes, my lord."

This, then--this poor little deformed figure, with every limb
shrunken and useless, and every joint distorted, the head just able to
sustain itself and turn feebly from one side to the other, and the thin
white hands piteously twisted and helpless-looking--this, then, was
the Earl of Cairnforth.

"It's a bonnie loch, Malcolm."

"It looks awful' bonnie the day, my lord."

"And," almost in a whisper, "was it just there my father was drowned?"

"Yes, my lord."