And his stories were enjoyed by others as much as by himself, which no
doubt added to the charm of them. When winter came, and all the boating
days were done, many a night, round the fire of the Manse parlor, or in
the "awful eerie" library at the Castle, the earl used to have a whole
circle of young people, and some elder ones too, gathered round his
wheel-chair, listening to his wonderful tales of adventure by flood and
field.

"Why don't you write them out properly?" the boys would ask sometimes,
forgetting--what Helen would never have forgotten. But he only
looked down on his poor helpless fingers and smiled.

However, he had, with great difficulty and pains, managed to learn to
write--that is, to sign his name, or indite any short letter to Mr.
Menteith or others, which, as he grew older, sometimes became necessary.
But writing was always a great trouble to him; and, fortunately, people
were not expected to write much in those days. Had he been born a
little later in his century, the Earl of Cairnforth might have
brightened his sad life by putting his imagination forth in print, and
becoming a great literary character; as it was, he merely told his tales
for his own delight and that of those about him, which possibly was a
better thing than fame.

Then he made jokes, too. Sometimes, in his quiet, dry way, he said such
droll things that the Cardross boys fell into shouts of laughter. He
had the rare quality of seeing the comical side of things, without a
particle of ill-nature being mixed up with his fun. His wit danced
about as brilliantly and harmlessly as the Northern lights that flashed
and flamed of winter nights over the mountains at the head of the loch;
and the solid, somewhat heavy Manse boys, gradually growing up to men,