r
or two. If you will kindly take Dolly off our hands as quickly as
possible"--he caught his breath at that--"Kitty and I and Phillis will
go a trip round the world together. Then I'll come home and fight a
by-election, perhaps."

"Meanwhile," said Robin, "you will be having no further need of a
private secretary."

"I'm afraid not," I said. The fact had been tugging at my conscience for
the last two hours. "And that raises another question. What are you two
going to live on?"

"Champion wants me," said Robin. "He has offered me the post of
Secretary to that Royal Commission of which he has been appointed
Chairman. It is a fine opening."

"I should think it was!" I said with whole-hearted joy. "Good luck to
you, Robin!"

"Thank you!" said Robin. "Still," he added, as he turned to go, "I wish
I could have found you twenty-eight more votes."

"Between ourselves," I said, "I don't mind very much. I am not the right
man for this constituency. It has outgrown me. I have not the knack of
handling a big crowd. What I want is a fine old crusted unprogressive
seat, where I shan't constantly be compelled to drop my departmental
work and rush down to propitiate my supporters with untruthful
harangues. I'm a square peg here. Now, if they had wanted a really fit
and proper candidate for this Parliamentary Division, Robin, they ought
to have approached _you_."

"Och!" said Robin carelessly, "they did--a month ago! Good night!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY.

An old woman in a white mutch stands at the door of a farmhouse in a
Scottish glen. Her face is wrinkled, and her dim eyes are peering down
the track which leads from the steading to the pasture. Being apparently
unable to focus what she wants to see she adjusts a pair of spectacles.

This action brings into her range of vision a distant figure which is
engaged in shepherding a herd of passive but resisting cows through a
gap in the dyke. It is a slow business, but the procession gradually
nears home; and when the man at the helm succeeds in steering his
sauntering charges safely between the Scylla of a hay-rick and the
Charybdis of the burn, the old lady takes off her spectacles and relaxes
her vigilance.

When she looks again, though, she breaks into an exclamation of dismay.
The leaders of the straggling procession have safely reached the door of
the byre close by; but one frisky young cow, suddenly swerving through
an open gate, bre