" said he, approaching another morsel.

They showed themselves by way of smile, and confirmed the accusation.

"Aha! lad," answered she; "they've been the death o' mony a herrin'!"

"Now, what does that mean in English, Christie?"

"My grinders--(a full stop.)

"Which you approve--(a full stop.)

"Have been fatal--(a full stop.)

"To many fishes!"

Christie prided herself on her English, which she had culled from books.

Then he made her drink from the cup, and was ostentatious in putting his
lips to the same part of the brim.

Then she left the table, and inspected all things.

She came to his drawers, opened one, and was horror-struck.

There were coats and trousers, with their limbs interchangeably
intertwined, waistcoats, shirts, and cigars, hurled into chaos.

She instantly took the drawer bodily out, brought it, leaned it against
the tea-table, pointed silently into it, with an air of majestic
reproach, and awaited the result.

"I can find whatever I want," said the unblushing bachelor, "except
money."

"Siller does na bide wi' slovens! hae ye often siccan a gale o' wind in
your drawer?"

"Every day! Speak English!"

"Aweel! How _do_ you _do?_ that's Ennglish! I daur say."

"Jolly!" cried he, with his mouth full. Christie was now folding up and
neatly arranging his clothes.

"Will you ever, ever be a painter?"

"I am a painter! I could paint the Devil pea-green!"

"Dinna speak o' yon lad, Chairles, it's no canny."

"No! I am going to paint an angel; the prettiest, cleverest girl in
Scotland, 'The Snowdrop of the North.'"

And he dashed into his bedroom to find a canvas.

"Hech!" reflected Christie. "Thir Ennglish hae flattering tongues, as
sure as Dethe; 'The Snawdrap o' the Norrth!'"

CHAPTER VIII.

GATTY'S back was hardly turned when a visitor arrived, and inquired, "Is
Mr. Gatty at home?"

"What's your will wi' him?" was the Scottish reply.

"Will you give him this?"

"What est?"

"Are you fond of asking questions?" inquired the man.

"Ay! and fules canna answer them," retorted Christie.

The little document which the man, in retiring, left with Christie
Johnstone purported to come from one Victoria, who seemed, at first
sight, disposed to show Charles Gatty civilities. "Victoria--to Charles
Gatty, greeting! (salutem)." Christie was much struck with this instance
of royal affability; she read no further, but began to think, "Victoree!
that's the queen hersel. A le