One day, getting towards the end of December, the laird awoke in a singular mood.

He had no mind to go to the works, and the weather promised to give him a good excuse.

Over the dreary hills there was a mournful floating veil of mist.

Clouds were flying rapidly in great masses, and showers streaming through the air in disordered ranks, driven furiously before a mad wind--a wind that before noon shook the doors and windows, and drove the bravest birds into hiding.
The laird wandered restlessly up and down.
"There is the dominie," cried Mrs.Hope, about one o'clock.

"What brings him here through such a storm ?" Crawford walked to the door to meet him.