John Burnet of Barns by John Buchan — Read

"I've travelled far and seen many things, but, Gad, I never saw a stranger than this. My niece is driven out of house and home by an overbold lover, and you, Master Burnet, come here and bid me take over the keeping of this firebrand, which, it seems, is so obnoxious to His Majesty's lieges."

So spake the old laird of Smitwood, smiling. He was a man of full eighty years of age, but still erect with a kind of soldierly bearing. He was thin and tall, and primly dressed in the fashion of an elder day. The frosty winter of age had come upon him, but in his ruddy cheek and clean-cut face one could see the signs of a hale and vigorous decline. He had greeted us most hospitably, and seemed hugely glad to see Marjory again, whom he had not set eyes on for many a day. We had fallen to supper with keen appetite, for the air of the moors stirs up the sharpest hunger; and now that we had finished we sat around the hall-fire enjoying our few remaining hours of company together. For myself I relished the good fare and the warmth, for Heaven knew when either would be mine again. The high oak-roofed chamber, hung with portraits of Veitches many, was ruddy with fire-light. Especially the picture in front of the chimney by Vandyke, of that Michael Veitch who died at Philiphaugh, was extraordinarily clear and lifelike. Master Veitch looked often toward it; then he took snuff with a great air of deliberation, and spoke in his high, kindly old voice.