ting quality. He wore gray satin of an elegant finish, but
neither embroidery nor jewels, and, notwithstanding his position and
power, conveyed the impression in some adroit way, subtler than I can
set forth, that he deprecated his temerity in addressing so austere a
person as myself. I had seen women use this essence of flattery, but it
was the first time I ever found it employed by a man.

"Will my Lord Stair allow me to introduce myself to him?" he inquired,
with a smile, extending his hand. "I am John Montrose, and there are
many reasons why we should determine to be good friends."

"We are both Highland folk," I answered.

"Which is one excellent reason," he interrupted; "yet there are several
more moving than that. Your father, Lord Stair, and mine were out
together in the forty-fives, on which side I need scarcely mention; and
again, your grandfather and mine both loved and fought for the
beautiful Nancy Hamilton, and, but for the preference of the lady
herself, she might have been my own grandmother. These things call for
a friendly feeling between us, Lord Stair, but that which drives me
forward most to your acquaintancy is the admiration I have for the
writings of your daughter, Mistress Nancy, whose lines ring through my
head more often than I care to tell, and whose poems have been upon my
writing-table ever since they were published."

In this pleasant way we fell to talk of Nancy, of her gifts, her
beauty, her loving tenderness for all things, her strange up-bringing,
her people on the Burnside; and to a doting father such as I was the
time flew quickly by.

I noted at length that there was some stir in the circle around her,
and watched her cross the room with her Grace of Gordon and Danvers
Carmichael in attendance, to the musicians' place in the great window.

I have wondered at times if folk who dwell on the temptations male
creatures have think ever of those which come to women of great
attractiveness to men. The thought came to me as Nancy took her place
beside the harp and violins, which were to accompany her singing, and I
sent a prayer to Heaven to keep my child unspotted from the world,
uttering it none the less fervently because his Grace of Borthwicke,
with lids veiling the fire of his eyes, was looking at her.

Twice she sang, her songs being of her own land, one of the highlands,
with the perfume of the gorse and the heather in the lilt of it, and
the second, by demand of Sandy, the gi