lf in a scene of a more grave and serious character, it would not
perhaps have been easy to guess.

The mirth of the party in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken had just
attained its height, when a circumstance occurred which did not affect
its humour, but somewhat changed its character. This was the entrance of
two of the landlord's daughters. Dressed in the neat and simple,
although somewhat peculiar, costume of their country, with their hair
tightly braided up, and bound with a broad silver frontlet, so as to
exhibit in bold relief the contour of their full and fair countenances,
two prettier girls than Juliana and Joan Vander Tromp were not within
the walls of the Hague.

As they entered the kitchen, to which they had come merely, or, perhaps,
we should have said ostensibly, to look after some household affairs,
the girls curtsied slightly but gracefully to the company by which it
was occupied, and, smiling pleasantly and good-naturedly the while,
passed on to the upper end of the apartment, and began to occupy
themselves in some little domestic duties. They had not, however, been
permitted to enter unnoticed. On their appearance, the whole party got
up from their seats, and acknowledged their presence by a gallant
greeting; and in this courtesy, Mr Jones again shone pre-eminent by the
greater grace and deeper devotion he displayed in his chivalrous welcome
to the fair visitors.

It might have been observed, too, that to him, in turn, were the
curtsies and the looks also of the young ladies most especially
directed; but in this case these were associated with a degree of
respect for which it would not have been easy to account.

"What think ye of our fair Netherlanders, laird?" said Mr Jones to the
latter, in a half whisper, when the ladies' attention was, or seemed to
be, engrossed by their occupation. "Will they not match your Scotch
lasses, think you?"

"That's a pair o' braw queans, I maun allow," replied the laird. "Just
twa as bonny bits o' lassocks as ane wad wish to see; but I think they
want the complexion--they haena the blume o' our kilted heather
trampers. They want the caller red that the norland breeze puts on the
cheeks o' our Scottish gilpies. That's my humble opinion, sir. But
they're twa bonny lassocks, for a' that. Nae doot o't."

"On the score of complexion I grant ye, laird, they are, perhaps,
deficient a little, but I think this amply compensated by the
intellectual expression, the fine con