Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes from affectionate
reminiscence.

"There was never sic a laddie as young Maister Quentin. No' a week
gaed by but he was in here, cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till
my tea!' Fine he likit my treacle scones, puir man. There wasna
ane in the countryside sae bauld a rider at the hunt, or sic a
skeely fisher. And he was clever at his books tae, a graund
scholar, they said, and ettlin' at bein' what they ca' a dipplemat,
But that' a' bye wi'."

"Quentin Kennedy--the fellow in the Tins?" Heritage asked. "I saw
him in Rome when he was with the Mission."

"I dinna ken. He was a brave sodger, but he wasna long fechtin' in
France till he got a bullet in his breist. Syne we heard tell o'
him in far awa' bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war
and we lookit to see him back, fishin' the waters and ridin' like
Jehu as in the auld days. But wae's me! It wasna permitted.
The next news we got, the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and
buried somewhere about France. The wanchancy bullet maun have
weakened his chest, nae doot. So that's the end o' the guid stock
o' Kennedy o' Huntingtower, whae hae been great folk sin' the time
o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose is shut up till the lawyers can
get somebody sae far left to himsel' as to tak' it on lease, and in
thae dear days it's no' just onybody that wants a muckle castle."

"Who are the lawyers?" Dickson asked.

"Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they never look near the place,