of his kind, not inveterately, for he spoke good
English to women; but as he indulged in his dear island slang to men, he
felt bound to use it to himself. "This poor little woman is thorough
game," he said to himself. "I can see that she is as tender as a little
bird, yet she has shown as much pluck as a six-foot grenadier? She has
not flinched at all. I can do justice to this spirit." He remembered it
all the time when Polly Musgrave was sounding him, and when he did not
choose to give her the slightest satisfaction.

"I saw you with my cousin Joanna, Mr. Jardine; you'll find her in the
Spanish style."

"Not in complexion certainly. Do you mean in name?"

"Oh, no! Do you know so little about the south of Scotland after all?
You had better conceal this piece of ignorance. I am sure you understand
this much--a general acquaintance with the whole habitable globe would
not atone for a deficiency with regard to this one dear little spot of
earth. Joanna is as common a name in the south of Scotland as Dorothy is
in the north of England. Examine the register, and see if you have not
twenty Jardine cousins christened Joanna. I call Joanna in the Spanish
style, because, although she conceals it, and you cannot have found it
out yet, she is a vestige of romantic chivalry. Joanna is a Donna
Quixotina, an unworldly, unearthly sort of girl, with a dream of tilting
with the world and succouring the distressed. I term it a dream,
because, of course, she will never accomplish it, any more than the
knight of La Mancha, and she will be obliged to descend from her stilts
by-and-by. I call Susan in the beautiful style, and Lilias in the good
style, and Conny in the sweet sixteen style."

"Miss Musgrave, I am not versed in ladies' styles, you must teach me;"
and Polly and he looked into each other's eyes, and laughed and felt
they were match for match.

And Joanna had a little regret that Mr. Jardine should, like most men,
be caught with Polly Musgrave; not that Joanna did not admire Polly,
though she was her antithesis, and count her handsome and brilliant in
her way, like any sun-loving dahlia or hollyhock; but Joanna had no
enthusiasm in her admiration of Polly, and she had a little enthusiasm
in her estimation of Harry Jardine.

III.--"HE LAY DOWN TO SLEEP ON THE MOORLAND SO DREARY."

Polly Musgrave was gone with flying colours. She had been indefatigable
in procuring her aunt, uncle, and cousins, parting gifts that would sui