r the personal allusion--"better to have been the
Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together."

"I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little
doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian," coolly answered the Master
of Glenbracken.

"Why?" was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.

"It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen," he answered.

"If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to
be a Scot."

"And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!"

"Ogilvie!" called Norman, "are you fighting Scottish and English battles
with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for
going to Blenheim."

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their
lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to
take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much,
while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in
answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any
effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest,
while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this,
and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave
her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to
women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real
character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest;
and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue
with him.

CHAPTER IX.

While I, thy dearest, sat apart,
And felt thy triumphs were as mine,
And lov'd them more than they were thine.
TENNYSON.

That was a week of weeks; the most memorable week in Ethel's life, spent
in indefatigable sight-seeing. College Chapels, Bodleian Library, Taylor
Gallery, the Museum, all were thoroughly studied, and, if Flora had not
dragged the party on, in mercy to poor George's patience, Ethel would
never have got through a day's work.

Indeed, Mr. Ogilvie, when annoyed at being hurried in going over
Merton Chapel with her, was heard to whisper that he acted the part of
policeman, by a perpetual "move on"; and as Ethel recollected the portly
form and wooden face of the superintendent at Stoneborough, she was
afraid that the comparison would not soon be forgotten. Norman Ogilvie
seemed to consider himself b