M’Nab regarded him with an earnest, narrow, wintry look.  “I would not wish to deserve that epithet, Mr. Strickland.  But the world is evil, and Satan stands close at the ear of the young, both the poor and them of place and world’s gear!  So I doubt not that he eats the husks.  I doubt not, either, that the Lord has a rod for him, as for us all, that will drive him, willy-nilly, home.  So I’ll say good day, sir.  To-morrow I’ll go again to the laird, and so every day until his summons comes.”

They parted at the manse door.  The world was gray, the snow swiftening its approach.  Strickland, passing the kirk, kept on down the one village street.  All and any who were out of doors spoke to him, asking how did the laird.  Some asked if “the young laird” had come.

In the shop where he made his purchase the woman who sold would have kept him talking an hour:  “Wad the laird last the week?  Wad he make friends before he died with Mr. Touris of Black Hill with whom he had the great quarrel three years since?  Eh, sirs! and he never set foot again in Touris House, nor Mr. Touris in his!—­Wad Mr. Jamie gae now to Edinburgh or on his travels, that had been at home sae lang because the laird wadna part with him?—­Wad Miss Alice, that was as bonny as a rose and mair friendly than the gowans on a June lea, just bide on at the house with her aunt, Mrs. Grizel, that came when the leddy died?  Wad—­”

Strickland smiled.  “You must just come up to the house, Mrs. Macmurdo, and have a talk with Mrs. Grizel.—­I hope the laird may last the week.”

“You’re a close ane!” thought the disappointed Mrs. Macmurdo.  Aloud she said, “Aweel, sir, Mr. Alexander that will be laird is coming hame frae foreign parts?”

“Yes.”

“Sic a wanderer as he has been!  But there!” said Mrs. Macmurdo, “ony that saw him when he was a laddie gaeing here and gaeing there by his lane-some, glen and brae and muir, might ha’ said, ’Ye’re a wanderer—­and as sune as ye may ye’ll wander farther!’”

“You’re quite right, Mrs. Macmurdo,” said Strickland, and took his parcel from her.

“A wanderer and a seeker!” Mrs. Macmurdo was loth to let him go.  “And his great friend is still Captain Ian Rullock?”

“Yes, still.”

Mrs. Macmurdo reluctantly opened the shop door.  “Aweel, sir, if ye maun gae.—­There’ll be snaw the night, I’m thinking!  Do ye stop at the inn?  There’s twa-three sogers in town.”

Strickland had not meant to stop.  But, coming to the Jardine Arms and glancing through the window, he saw by the light of the fire in the common room four men in red coats sitting at table, drinking.  He felt jaded and depressed, needing distraction from the gray chill day and the laird’s dying.  Curiosity faintly stretched herself.  He turned into the inn, took a seat by a corner table, and called for a bottle of wine.  In addition to the soldiers the room had a handful of others—­farmers, a lawyer’s clerk from Stirling, a petty officer of the excise, and two or three village nondescripts.  From this group there now disengaged himself Robin Greenlaw, who came across to Strickland’s table.