“Where is Alexander?” asked the laird.

Strickland answered.  “He is not in yet, sir.  I fancy that he walked to the far moor.  Bran is with him.”

“He’s a wanderer!” said the laird.  “But he ought to keep hours.”

“That’s a fine youth!” quoth Mr. Touris, drinking tea.  “I marked him yesterday, casting the bar.  Very strong—­a powerful frame like yours, Glenfernie!  When is he going to college?”

“This coming year.  I have kept him by me late,” said the laird, broodingly.  “I like my bairns at home.”

“Aye, but the young will not stay as they used to!  They will be voyaging,” said the guest.  “They build outlandish craft and forthfare, no matter what you cry to them!” His voice had a mordant note.  “I know.  I’ve got one myself—­a nephew, not a son.  But I am his guardian and he’s in my house, and it is the same.  If I buy Black Hill, Glenfernie, I hope that your son and my nephew may be friends.  They’re about of an age.”

The listening Jamie spoke from beyond Strickland.  “What’s your nephew’s name, sir?”

“Ian.  Ian Rullock.  His father’s mother was a Highland lady, near kinswoman to Gordon of Huntley.”  Mr. Touris was again speaking to his host.  “As a laddie, before his father’s death (his mother, my sister, died at his birth), he was much with those troublous northern kin.  His father took him, too, in England, here and there among the Tory crowd.  But I’ve had him since he was twelve and am carrying him on in the straight Whig path.”

“And in the true Presbyterian religion?”

“Why, as to that,” said Mr. Touris, “his father was of the Church Episcopal in Scotland.  I trust that we are all Christians, Glenfernie!”

The laird made a dissenting sound.  “I kenned,” he said, and his voice held a grating gibe, “that you had left the Kirk.”

Mr. Archibald Touris sipped his tea.  “I did not leave it so far, Glenfernie, that I cannot return!  In England, for business reasons, I found it wiser to live as lived the most that I served.  Naaman was permitted to bow himself in the house of Rimmon.”

“You are not Naaman,” answered the laird.  “Moreover, I hold that Naaman sinned!”

Mrs. Jardine would make a diversion.  “Mr. Jardine, will you have sugar to your tea?  Mr. Strickland says the great pine is blown down, this side the glen.  The Mercury brings us news of the great world, Mr. Touris, but I dare say you can give us more?”

“The chief news, ma’am, is that we want war with Spain and Walpole won’t give it to us.  But we’ll have it—­British trade must have it or lower her colors to the Dons!  France, too—­”

Supper went on, with abundant and good food and drink.  The laird sat silent.  Strickland gave Mrs. Jardine yeoman aid.  Jamie and Alice now listened to the elders, now in an undertone discoursed their own affairs.  Mr. Touris talked, large trader talk, sprinkled with terms of commerce and Indian policy.  Supper over, all rose.  The table was cleared, wine and glasses brought and set upon it, between the candles.  The young folk vanished.  Bright as was the night, the air carried an edge.  Mr. Touris, standing by the fire, warmed himself and took snuff.  Strickland, who had left the hall, returned and placed her embroidery frame for Mrs. Jardine.