nt 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."*

* A local idea, I suspect.--C. R.

"Why, what can two such pretty creatures have to do except to be
admired?"

This question coming within the dark beauty's scope, she hastened to
reply.

"To sell our herrin'--we hae three hundre' left in the creel."

"What is the price?"

At this question the poetry died out of Christie Johnstone's face,
she gave her companion a rapid look, indiscernible by male eye, and
answered: