I said I feared it was his own supper.

“O,” said he, “I can do fine wanting it.  I’ll take the ale, though, for it slockens (moistens) my cough.”  He drank the cup about half out, still keeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his hand.  “Let’s see the letter,” said he.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

“And who do ye think I am?” says he.  “Give me Alexander’s letter.”

“You know my father’s name?”

“It would be strange if I didnae,” he returned, “for he was my born brother; and little as ye seem to like either me or my house, or my good parritch, I’m your born uncle, Davie, my man, and you my born nephew.  So give us the letter, and sit down and fill your kyte.”

If I had been some years younger, what with shame, weariness, and disappointment, I believe I had burst into tears.  As it was, I could find no words, neither black nor white, but handed him the letter, and sat down to the porridge with as little appetite for meat as ever a young man had.

Meanwhile, my uncle, stooping over the fire, turned the letter over and over in his hands.

“Do ye ken what’s in it?” he asked, suddenly.

“You see for yourself, sir,” said I, “that the seal has not been broken.”

“Ay,” said he, “but what brought you here?”

“To give the letter,” said I.

“No,” says he, cunningly, “but ye’ll have had some hopes, nae doubt?”

“I confess, sir,” said I, “when I was told that I had kinsfolk well-to-do, I did indeed indulge the hope that they might help me in my life.  But I am no beggar; I look for no favours at your hands, and I want none that are not freely given.  For as poor as I appear, I have friends of my own that will be blithe to help me.”

“Hoot-toot!” said Uncle Ebenezer, “dinnae fly up in the snuff at me.  We’ll agree fine yet.  And, Davie, my man, if you’re done with that bit parritch, I could just take a sup of it myself.  Ay,” he continued, as soon as he had ousted me from the stool and spoon, “they’re fine, halesome food—­they’re grand food, parritch.”  He murmured a little grace to himself and fell to.  “Your father was very fond of his meat, I mind; he was a hearty, if not a great eater; but as for me, I could never do mair than pyke at food.”  He took a pull at the small beer, which probably reminded him of hospitable duties, for his next speech ran thus:  “If ye’re dry ye’ll find water behind the door.”

To this I returned no answer, standing stiffly on my two feet, and looking down upon my uncle with a mighty angry heart.  He, on his part, continued to eat like a man under some pressure of time, and to throw out little darting glances now at my shoes and now at my home-spun stockings.  Once only, when he had ventured to look a little higher, our eyes met; and no thief taken with a hand in a man’s pocket could have shown more lively signals of distress.  This set me in a muse, whether his timidity arose from too long a disuse of any human company; and whether perhaps, upon a little trial, it might pass off, and my uncle change into an altogether different man.  From this I was awakened by his sharp voice.