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           “O,”saidhe,“Icandofinewantingit.I’lltaketheale,though,foritslockens(moistens)mycough.”Hedrankthecupabouthalfout,stillkeepinganeyeuponmeashedrank;andthensuddenlyheldouthishand.“Let’sseetheletter,”saidhe.

           ItoldhimtheletterwasforMr.Balfour;notforhim.

           “AndwhodoyethinkIam?”sayshe.“GivemeAlexander’sletter.”

           “Youknowmyfather’sname?”

           “ItwouldbestrangeifIdidnae,”hereturned,“forhewasmybornbrother;andlittleasyeseemtolikeeithermeormyhouse,ormygoodparritch,I’myourbornuncle,Davie,myman,andyoumybornnephew.Sogiveustheletter,andsitdownandfillyourkyte.”

           IfIhadbeensomeyearsyounger,whatwithshame,weariness,anddisappointment,IbelieveIhadburstintotears.Asitwas,Icouldfindnowords,neitherblacknorwhite,buthandedhimtheletter,andsatdowntotheporridgewithaslittleappetiteformeataseverayoungmanhad.

           Meanwhile,myuncle,stoopingoverthefire,turnedtheletteroverandoverinhishands.

           “Doyekenwhat’sinit?”heasked,suddenly.

           “Youseeforyourself,sir,”saidI,“thatthesealhasnotbeenbroken.”

           “Ay,”saidhe,“butwhatbroughtyouhere?”

           “Togivetheletter,”saidI.

           “No,”sayshe,cunningly,“butye’llhavehadsomehopes,naedoubt?”

           “Iconfess,sir,”saidI,“whenIwastoldthatIhadkinsfolkwell-to-do,Ididindeedindulgethehopethattheymighthelpmeinmylife.