However there he sat, and there he drank, and, truth to tell, now and then smiled grimly.
The laird set a pair of brass candlesticks on the table--there were no silver utensils any more in the house of Glenwarlock; years ago the last of them had vanished--and retired to a wooden chair at the end of the hearth, under the lamp that hung on the wall.

But on his way he had taken from a shelf an old, much-thumbed folio which Mr.
Simon had lent him--the journal of George Fox, and the panorama which then for a while kept passing before his mind's eye, was not a little different from that passing before Lord Mergwain's.

What a study to a spirit able to watch the unrolling of the two side by side! In a few minutes Grizzie entered, carrying a fowl newly killed, its head almost touching the ground at the end of its long, limp neck.
She seated herself on a stool, somewhere about the middle of the large space, and proceeded to pluck, and otherwise prepare it for the fire.

Having, last of all, split it open from end to end, turning it into something like an illegible heraldic crest, she approached the fire, the fowl in one hand, the gridiron in the other.
"I doobt I maun get his lordship to sit a wee back frae the fire," she said.

"I maun jist bran'er this chuckie for his supper." Lady Joan had taken Mrs.Warlock's chair, and her father had taken the laird's, and pulled it right in front of the fire, where a small deal table supported his bottle, his decanter, and his three glasses.
"What does the woman mean ?" said his lordship.