Next day, when the Court again assembled, Walter was there, seated beside his agent, and dressed in his best. Every eye was directed towards him; and the simple expression of wonder, mingled with anxiety, which the scene around him occasioned, gave an air of so much intelligence to his features, which were regular, and, indeed, handsome, that he excited almost universal sympathy; even Mr. Threeper was perplexed, when he saw him, at the proper time, rise from beside his friend, and, approaching the bottom of the table, make a slow and profound bow, first to the Sheriff and then to the jury.

‘You are Mr. Walkinshaw, I believe?’ said Mr. Threeper.

‘I believe I am,’ replied Walter, timidly.

‘What are you, Mr. Walkinshaw?’

‘A man, sir.—My mother and brother want to mak me a daft ane.’

‘How do you suspect them of any such intention?’

‘Because ye see I’m here—I would na hae been here but for that.’

The countenance of honest Keelevin began to brighten, while that of George was clouded and overcast.

‘Then you do not think you are a daft man?’ said the advocate.

‘Nobody thinks himsel daft. I dare say ye think ye’re just as wise as me.’

A roar of laughter shook the Court, and Threeper blushed and was disconcerted; but he soon resumed, tartly,—

‘Upon my word, Mr. Walkinshaw, you have a good opinion of yourself. I should like to know for what reason?’

‘That’s a droll question to speer at a man,’ replied Walter. ‘A poll parrot thinks weel o’ itsel, which is but a feathered creature, and short o’ the capacity of a man by twa hands.’

Mr. Keelevin trembled and grew pale; and the advocate, recovering full possession of his assurance, proceeded,—

‘And so ye think, Mr. Walkinshaw, that the two hands make all the difference between a man and a parrot?’

‘No, no, sir,’ replied Walter, ‘I dinna think that,—for ye ken the beast has feathers.’

‘And why have not men feathers?’

‘That’s no a right question, sir, to put to the like o’ me, a weak human creature;—ye should ask their Maker,’ said Walter gravely.

The advocate was again repulsed; Pitwinnoch sat doubting the intelligence of his ears, and George shivering from head to foot: a buzz of satisfaction pervaded the whole Court.

‘Well, but not to meddle with such mysteries,’ said Mr. Threeper, assuming a jocular tone, ‘I suppose you think yourself a very clever fellow?’

‘At some things,’ replied Walter modestly; ‘but I dinna like to make a roos o’ mysel.’

‘And pray now, Mr. Walkinshaw, may I ask what do you think you do best?’

‘Man! an ye could see how I can sup curds and ream—there’s no ane in a’ the house can ding me.’

The sincerity and exultation with which this was expressed convulsed the Court, and threw the advocate completely on his beam-ends. However, he soon righted, and proceeded,—

‘I don’t doubt your ability in that way, Mr. Walkinshaw; and I dare say you can play a capital knife and fork.’

‘I’m better at the spoon,’ replied Walter laughing.

‘Well, I must confess you are a devilish clever fellow.’

‘Mair sae, I’m thinking, than ye thought, sir.—But noo, since,’ continued Walter, ‘ye hae speer’t so many questions at me, will ye answer one yoursel?’

‘Oh, I can have no possible objection to do that, Mr. Walkinshaw.’

‘Then,’ said Walter, ‘how muckle are ye to get frae my brother for this job?’

Again the Court was convulsed, and the questioner again disconcerted.

‘I suspect, brother Threeper,’ said the Sheriff, ‘that you are in the wrong box.’

‘I suspect so too,’ replied the advocate laughing; but, addressing himself again to Walter, he said,—

‘You have been married, Mr. Walkinshaw?’

‘Aye, auld Doctor Denholm married me to Betty Bodle.’

‘And pray where is she?’

‘Her mortal remains, as the headstone says, lie in the kirkyard.’

The countenance of Mr. Keelevin became pale and anxious—George and Pitwinnoch exchanged smiles of gratulation.

‘You had a daughter?’ said the advocate, looking knowingly to the jury, who sat listening with greedy ears.

‘I had,’ said Walter, and glanced anxiously towards his trembling agent.

‘And what became of your daughter?’

No answer was immediately given—Walter hung his head, and seemed troubled; he sighed deeply, and again turned his eye inquiringly to Mr. Keelevin. Almost every one present sympathized with his emotion, and ascribed it to parental sorrow.

‘I say,’ resumed the advocate, ‘what became of your daughter?’

‘I canna answer that question.’

The simple accent in which this was uttered interested all in his favour still more and more.

‘Is she dead?’ said the pertinacious Mr. Threeper.

‘Folk said sae; and what every body says maun be true.’

‘Then you don’t, of your own knowledge, know the fact?’

‘Before I can answer that, I would like to ken what a fact is?’

The counsel shifted his ground, without noticing the question; and said,—

‘But I understand, Mr. Walkinshaw, you have still a child that you call your Betty Bodle?’

‘And what business hae ye wi’ that?’ said the natural, offended. ‘I never saw sic a stock o’ impudence as ye hae in my life.’

‘I did not mean to offend you, Mr. Walkinshaw; I was only anxious, for the ends of justice, to know if you consider the child you call Betty Bodle as your daughter?’

‘I’m sure,’ replied Walter, ‘that the ends o’ justice would be meikle better served an ye would hae done wi’ your speering.’

‘It is, I must confess, strange that I cannot get a direct answer from you, Mr. Walkinshaw. Surely, as a parent, you should know your child!’ exclaimed the advocate, peevishly.

‘An I was a mother ye might say sae.’

Mr. Threeper began to feel, that, hitherto, he had made no impression; and forming an opinion of Walter’s shrewdness far beyond what he was led to expect, he stooped, and conferred a short time with Mr. Pitwinnoch. On resuming his wonted posture, he said,—

‘I do not wish, Mr. Walkinshaw, to harass your feelings; but I am not satisfied with the answer you have given respecting your child; and I beg you will be a little more explicit. Is the little girl that lives with you your daughter?’

‘I dinna like to gie you any satisfaction on that head; for Mr. Keelevin said, ye would bother me if I did.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the triumphant advocate, ‘have I caught you at last?’

A murmur of disappointment ran through all the Court; and Walter looked around coweringly and afraid.

‘So Mr. Keelevin has primed you, has he? He has instructed you what to say?’

‘No,’ said the poor natural; ‘he instructed me to say nothing.’

‘Then why did he tell you that I would bother you?’

‘I dinna ken, speer at himsel; there he sits.’

‘No, sir! I ask you,’ said the advocate, grandly.

‘I’m wearied, Mr. Keelevin,’ said Walter, helplessly, as he looked towards his disconsolate agent. ‘May I no come away?’

The honest lawyer gave a deep sigh; to which all the spectators sympathizingly responded.

‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the Sheriff, ‘don’t be alarmed—we are all friendly disposed towards you; but it is necessary, for the satisfaction of the jury, that you should tell us what you think respecting the child that lives with you.’

Walter smiled and said, ‘I hae nae objection to converse wi’ a weel-bred gentleman like you; but that barking terrier in the wig, I can thole him no longer.’

‘Well, then,’ resumed the judge, ‘is the little girl your daughter?’

‘’Deed is she—my ain dochter.’

‘How can that be, when, as you acknowledged, every body said your dochter was dead?’

‘But I kent better mysel—my bairn and dochter, ye see, sir, was lang a weakly baby, ay bleating like a lambie that has lost its mother; and she dwin’t and dwinlet, and moan’t and grew sleepy sleepy, and then she clos’d her wee bonny een, and lay still; and I sat beside her three days and three nights, watching her a’ the time, never lifting my een frae her face, that was as sweet to look on as a gowan in a lown May morning. But I ken na how it came to pass—I thought, as I look’t at her, that she was changet, and there began to come a kirkyard smell frae the bed, that was just as if the hand o’ Nature was wising me to gae away; and then I saw, wi’ the eye o’ my heart, that my brother’s wee Mary was grown my wee Betty Bodle, and so I gaed and brought her hame in my arms, and she is noo my dochter. But my mother has gaen on like a randy at me ever sin syne, and wants me to put away my ain bairn, which I will never, never do—No, sir, I’ll stand by her, and guard her, though fifty mothers, and fifty times fifty brother Geordies, were to flyte at me frae morning to night.’

One of the jury here interposed, and asked several questions relative to the management of the estate; by the answers to which it appeared, not only that Walter had never taken any charge whatever, but that he was totally ignorant of business, and even of the most ordinary money transactions.

The jury then turned round and laid their heads together; the legal gentlemen spoke across the table, and Walter was evidently alarmed at the bustle.—In the course of two or three minutes, the foreman returned a verdict of Fatuity.

The poor Laird shuddered, and, looking at the Sheriff, said, in an accent of simplicity that melted every heart, ‘Am I found guilty?—Oh surely, sir, ye’ll no hang me, for I cou’dna help it?’