uite a different thing,
more spiritual, more difficult to break. Italy's charm has something
physical in it; it is born of blue sky, sunlit waves, soft atmosphere,
orange sails, and yellow moons, and appeals more to the senses. In
Scotland the climate certainly has nought to do with it, but the
imagination is somehow made captive. I am not enthralled by the past of
Italy or France, for instance."

"Of course you are not at the present moment," said Francesca, "because
you are enthralled by the past of Scotland, and even you cannot be the
slave of two pasts at the same time."

"I never was particularly enthralled by Italy's past," I argued with
exemplary patience, "but the romance of Scotland has a flavour all its
own. I do not quite know the secret of it."

"It's the kilts and the pipes," said Francesca.

"No, the history." (This from Salemina.)

"Or Sir Walter and the literature," suggested Mr. Macdonald.

"Or the songs and ballads," ventured Jean Dalziel.

"There!" I exclaimed triumphantly, "you see for yourselves you have
named avenue after avenue along which one's mind is led in charmed
subjection. Where can you find battles that kindle your fancy like
Falkirk and Flodden and Culloden and Bannockburn? Where a sovereign
that attracts, baffles, repels, allures, like Mary Queen of Scots,--and
where, tell me where, is there a Pretender like Bonnie Prince Charlie?
Think of the spirit in those old Scottish matrons who could sing--

'I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling-kame and spinning-wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
A braidsword, durk and white cockade.'"

"Yes," chimed in Salemina when I had finished quoting, "or that other
verse that goes--

'I ance had sons, I now hae nane,
I bare them toiling sairlie;
But I would bear them a' again
To lose them a' for Charlie!'

Isn't the enthusiasm almost beyond belief at this distance of time?" she
went on; "and isn't it a curious fact, as Mr. Macdonald told me a moment
ago, that though the whole country was vocal with songs for the lost
cause and the fallen race, not one in favour of the victors ever became
popular?"

"Sympathy for the under dog, as Miss Monroe's countrywomen would say
picturesquely," remarked Mr. Macdonald.

"I don't see why all the vulgarisms in the dictionary should be foisted
on the American girl," retorted Francesca loftily, "unless, indeed, it
is a determined attempt to find spots upon the sun