till his niece come o' age. He was a heap aboot the place afore his
brither dee'd, an' they war freen's as weel 's brithers. They say
'at the lady Arctoora--h'ard ye ever sic a hathenish name for a
lass!--is b'un' to merry the yoong lord. There 's a sicht o'
clapper-clash aboot the place, an' the fowk, an' their strange w'ys.
They tell me nane can be said to ken the yerl but his ain man. For
mysel' I never cam i' their coonsel--no' even to the buyin' or
sellin' o' a lamb."

"Weel," said a fair-haired, pale-faced man, "we ken frae scriptur
'at the sins o' the fathers is veesitit upo' the children to the
third an' fourth generation--an' wha can tell?"

"Wha can tell," rejoined another, who had a judicial look about him,
in spite of an unshaven beard, and a certain general disregard to
appearances, "wha can tell but the sins o' oor faithers may be lyin'
upo' some o' oorsel's at this varra moment?"

"In oor case, I canna see the thing wad be fair," said a fifth: "we
dinna even ken what they did!"

"We're no to interfere wi' the wull o' the Almichty," rejoined the
former. "It gangs its ain gait, an' mortal canna tell what that gait
is. His justice winna be contert."

Donal felt that to be silent now would be to decline witnessing. He
feared argument, lest he should fail and wrong the right, but he
must not therefore hang back. He drew his chair towards the table.

"Wad ye lat a stranger put in a word, freen's?" he said.