essons.

'_Sans purr_,' answered Blake; 'the Celtic wild cat has not the servile
accomplishment of purring. The words, a little altered, are the motto of
the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. This is the country of the wild
cat.'

'I thought the "wild cat" was a peculiarly American financial animal,'
said Merton.

Miss Macrae laughed, and, the gong sounding (by electricity, the wire
being connected with the Greenwich Observatory), she ran lightly up the
central staircase. Lady Bude had hurried to rejoin her lord; Merton and
Blake sauntered out to their rooms in the observatory, Blake with an air
of fatigue and languor.

'Learning ping-pong easily?' asked Merton.

'I have more hopes of teaching Miss Macrae the essential and intimate
elements of Celtic poetry,' said Blake. 'One box of books I brought with
me, another arrived to-day. I am about to begin on my Celtic drama of
"Con of the Hundred Battles."'

'Have you the works of the ancient Sennachie, Macfootle?' asked Merton.
He was jealous, and his usual urbanity was sorely tried by the Irish
bard. In short, he was rude; stupid, too.

However, Blake had his revenge after dinner, on the roof of the
observatory, where the ladies gathered round him in the faint silver
light, looking over the sleeping sea. 'Far away to the west,' he said,
'lies the Celtic paradise, the Isle of Apples!'

'American apples are excellent,' said Merton, but the beauty of the scene
and natural courtesy caused Miss Macrae to whisper 'Hush!'

The poet went on, 'May I speak to you the words of the emissary from the
lovely land?'

'The mysterious female?' said Merton brutally. 'Dr. Hyde calls her "a
mysterious female." It is in his _Literary History of Ireland_.'

'Pray let us hear the poem, Mr. Merton,' said Miss Macrae, attuned to the
charm of the hour and the scene.

'She came to Bran's Court,' said Blake, 'from the Isle of Apples, and no
man knew whence she came, and she chanted to them.'

'Twenty-eight quatrains, no less, a hundred and twelve lines,' said the
insufferable Merton. 'Could you give us them in Gaelic?'

The bard went on, not noticing the interruption, 'I shall translate

'There is a distant isle
Around which sea horses glisten,
A fair course against the white swelling surge,
Four feet uphold it.'

'Feet of white bronze under it.'

'White bronze, what's that, eh?' asked the practical Mr. Macrae.

'Glittering through beautiful ages!