the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again. By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have held his breath. I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand, and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man’s head in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the first-storey windows. “It’s loaded,” said a voice. “I have come here with a letter,” I said, “to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here?” “From whom is it?” asked the man with the blunderbuss. “That is neither here nor there,” said I, for I was growing very wroth. “Well,” was the reply, “ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with ye.” “I will do no such thing,” I cried. “I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour’s hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of introduction.” “A what?” cried the voice, sharply. I repeated what I had said. “Who are ye, yourself?” was the next question, after a considerable pause. “I am not ashamed of my name,” said I. “They call me David Balfour.” At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a curious change of voice, that the next question followed: “Is your father dead?” I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer, but stood staring. “Ay,” the man resumed, “he’ll be dead, no doubt; and that’ll be what brings ye chapping to my door.” Another pause, and then