was a moment's silence; eyes met eyes, and said, this is a stout soldier's last battle.
“The king could not bid him live.”
“Na! lad, King Deeth has ower strong a grrip.”
“But he did what kings can do, he gave him two blows with his royal sword.”
“Oh, the robber, and him a deeing mon.”
“Two words from his royal mouth, and he and we were Barons of Ipsden and Hawthorn Glen from that day to this.”
“But the puir dying creature?”
“What poor dying creature?”
“Your forbear, lad.”
“I don't know why you call him poor, madam; all the men of that day are dust; they are the gold dust who died with honor.
“He looked round, uneasily, for his son—for he had but one—and when that son knelt, unwounded, by him, he said, 'Goodnight, Baron Ipsden;' and so he died, fire in his eye, a smile on his lip, and honor on his name forever. I meant to tell you a lie, and I've told you the truth.”
“Laddie,” said Christie, half admiringly, half reproachfully, “ye gar the tear come in my een. Hech! look at yon lassie! how could you think t'eat plums through siccan a bonny story?”
“Hets,” answered Jean, who had, in fact, cleared the plate, “I aye listen best when my ain mooth's stappit.”
“But see, now,” pondered Christie, “twa words fra a king—thir titles are just breeth.”
“Of course,” was the answer. “All titles are. What is popularity? ask Aristides and Lamartine—the breath of a mob—smells of its source—and is gone before the sun can set on it. Now the royal breath does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age.”
The story had warmed our marble acquaintance. Saunders opened his eyes, and thought, “We shall wake up the House of Lords some evening—we shall.”
His lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the girls:
“I think I should like to be a fisherman.”
So saying, my lord yawned slightly.
To this aspiration the young fishwives deigned no attention, doubting, perhaps, its sincerity; and Christie, with a shade of severity, inquired of him how he came to be a vile count.
“A baron's no' a vile count, I'm sure,” said she; “sae tell me how ye came to be a vile count.”
“Ah!” said he, “that is by no means a pretty story like the other; you will not like it, I am sure.
“Ay, will I—ay, will I; I'm aye seeking knoewledge.”
“Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on one seat, in the same house, so one day he got up a—viscount.”
“Ower muckle pay for ower little wark.”
“Now don't say that; I wouldn't do it to be Emperor of Russia.”
“Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' ye; sae noow I'll gang, since ye are no for herrin'; come away, Jean.”
At this their host remonstrated, and inquired why bores are at one's service night and day, and bright people are always in a hurry; he was informed in reply, “Labor is the lot o' man. Div ye no ken that muckle? And abune a' o' women.” *
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