eel, we'll say three than--to _you_, sir."

"I winna gie ye mair nor half-a-croon."

"Hoot, sir! It's ower little."

"Well, I'll look further," said Mr Cupples, putting on English, and
moving to the door.

"Na, sir; ye'll do nae sic thing. Do ye think I wad lat the leebrarian
o' my son's college gang oot at my door this time o' nicht, to luik for
a bed till himsel'? Ye s' jist hae't at yer ain price, and welcome.
Ye'll hae yer tay and sugar and bitties o' cheese frae me, ye ken?"

"Of course--of course. And if you could get me some tea at once, I
should be obliged to you."

"Mother," cried Bruce through the house-door, and held a momentary
whispering with the partner of his throne.

"So your name's Bruce, is it?" resumed Cupples, as the other returned
to the counter.

"Robert Bruce, sir, at your service."

"It's a gran' _name_," said Cupples with emphasis.

"'Deed is't, and I hae a richt to beir 't."

"Ye'll be a descendant, nae doot, o' the Yerl o' Carrick?" said
Cupples, guessing at his weakness.

"O' the king, sir. Fowk may think little o' me; but I come o' him that
freed Scotland. Gin it hadna been for Bannockburn, sir, whaur wad
Scotland hae been the day?"

"Nearhan' civileezed unner the fine influences o' the English, wi'
their cultivation and their mainners, and, aboon a', their gran'
Edwards and Hairries."

"I dinna richtly unnerstan' ye, sir," said Bruce. "Ye hae heard hoo the
king clave the skull o' Sir Henry dee Bohunn--haena ye, sir?"

"Ow, aye. But it was a pity it wasna the ither gait. Lat me see the way
to my room, for I want to wash my han's and face. They're jist barkit
wi' stour (dust)."

Bruce hesitated whether to show Mr Cupples out or in. His blue blood
boiled at this insult to his great progenitor. But a half-crown would
cover a greater wrong than that even, and he obeyed. Cupples followed
him up-stairs, murmuring to himself:

"Shades o' Wallace and Bruce! forgie me. But to see sma' craters cock
their noses and their tails as gin they had inherited the michty deeds
as weel as the names o' their forbears, jist scunners me, and turns my
blude into the gall o' bitterness--and that's scripter for't."

After further consultation, Mr and Mrs Bruce came to the conclusion
that it might be politic, for Robert's sake, to treat the librarian
with consideration. Consequently Mrs Bruce invited him to go down to
his tea in _the room_. Descending before it was quite ready, he looked
about