ut of
her way till the book was sucked.

One Saturday night Willy Liston's evil star ordained that a gentleman
of French origin and Spanish dress, called Gil Blas, should be the
Johnstone's companion.

Willy Liston arrived.

Christie, who had bolted the door, told him from the window, civilly
enough, but decidedly, "She would excuse his company that night."

"Vara weel," said Willy, and departed.

Next Saturday--no Willy came.

Ditto the next. Willy was waiting the _amende._

Christie forgot to make it.

One day she was passing the boats, Willy beckoned her mysteriously; he
led her to his boat, which was called "The Christie Johnstone"; by the
boat's side was a paint pot and brush.

They had not supped together for five Saturdays.

Ergo, Mr. Liston had painted out the first four letters of "Christie,"
he now proceeded to paint out the fifth, giving her to understand, that,
if she allowed the whole name to go, a letter every blank Saturday, her
image would be gradually, but effectually, obliterated from the heart
Listonian.

My reader has done what Liston did not, anticipate her answer. She
recommended him, while his hand was in, to paint out the entire name,
and, with white paint and a smaller brush, to substitute some other
female appellation. So saying, she tripped off.

Mr. Liston on this was guilty of the following inconsistency; he
pressed the paint carefully out of the brush into the pot. Having thus
economized his material, he hurled the pot which contained his economy
at "the Johnstone," he then adjourned to the "Peacock," and "away at
once with love and reason."

Thenceforth, when men asked who was Christie Johnstone's lad, the answer
used to be, "She's seeking ane." _Quelle horreur!!_

Newhaven doesn't know everything, but my intelligent reader suspects,
and, if confirming his suspicions can reconcile him to our facts, it
will soon be done.

But he must come with us to Edinburgh; it's only three miles.

CHAPTER VI.

A LITTLE band of painters came into Edinburgh from a professional walk.
Three were of Edinburgh--Groove, aged fifty; Jones and Hyacinth, young;
the latter long-haired.

With them was a young Englishman, the leader of the expedition, Charles
Gatty.

His step was elastic, and his manner wonderfully animated, without
loudness.

"A bright day," said he. "The sun forgot where he was, and shone;
everything was in favor of art."

"Oh, dear, no," replied old Groove, "not