O Angus, what news! Who told you? Is it true?
Are you quite sure?"

"Sure as the hills. Duncan told me. I have been over to Monksburn, and
he has just come home. All the clans in Scotland will be up to-morrow.
That was the one thing we wanted--our Prince himself among us. You will
hear of no faint hearts now."

"What will the Elector do?" said Flora. "He cannot, surely, make head
against our troops."

"Make head! We shall be in London in a month. Sir John Cope has gone
to meet Tullibardine at Glenfinnan. I expect he will come back a trifle
faster than he went. Long live the King, and may God defend the right!"

All at once, Angus's tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. "Cary, I
hope you are not a traitor in the camp? You look as if you cared
nothing about it, and you rather wondered we did."

"I know next to nothing about it, Angus," I answered. "Father would
care a great deal; and if I understood it, I dare say I might. But I
don't, you see."

"What do I hear!" cried Angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, and
casting up his eyes. "The daughter of Squire Courtenay of Brocklebank
knows next to nothing about Toryism! Hear it, O hills and dales!"

"About politics of any sort," said I. "Don't you know, I was brought up
with Grandmamma Desborough, who is a Whig so far as she is anything--but
she always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so I never had
the chance of hearing much about it."

"Poor old tabby!" said irreverent Angus.

"But have you heard nothing since you came to Brocklebank?" asked Flora,
with a surprised look.

"Oh, I have heard Father toast `the King over the water,' and rail at
the Elector; and I have heard Fanny chant that `Britons never shall be
slaves' till I never wanted to hear the tune again; and I have heard
Ambrose Catterall sing Whig songs to put Father in a pet, and heard lots
of people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the King
has his own again. That is about all I know. Of course I know how the
Revolution came about, and all that: and I have heard of the war thirty
years ago, and the dreadful executions after it--"

"Executions! Massacres!" cried Angus, hotly.

"Well, massacres if you like," said I. "I am sure they were shocking
enough to be called any ugly name."

Angus seemed altogether changed. He could not keep to one subject, nor
stand still for one minute. I was not much surprised so long as it was
only he; but I wa