Lumley's reply, as he sought to conceal his mortification by
attempting to join in the laugh against himself. Robert seized the
opportunity of turning away and entering the house.

'That ane's no to be droont or brunt aither,' said Lumley, as he
disappeared.

'He'll no be hang't for closin' your mou', Mr. Lumley,' said the
shoemaker.

Thereupon Lumley turned and followed Robert into the inn.

Robert had delivered his message to Miss Napier, who sat in an
arm-chair by the fire, in a little comfortable parlour, held sacred
by all about the house. She was paralytic, and unable to attend to
her guests further than by giving orders when anything especial was
referred to her decision. She was an old lady--nearly as old as
Mrs. Falconer--and wore glasses, but they could not conceal the
kindness of her kindly eyes. Probably from giving less heed to a
systematic theology, she had nothing of that sternness which first
struck a stranger on seeing Robert's grandmother. But then she did
not know what it was to be contradicted; and if she had been
married, and had had sons, perhaps a sternness not dissimilar might
have shown itself in her nature.

'Noo ye maunna gang awa' till ye get something,' she said, after
taking the receipt in request from a drawer within her reach, and
laying it upon the table. But ere she could ring the bell which
stood by her side, one of her servants came in.