him she was still the
wee bit lairdie's dochter, a vision that had dawned on his wretched
boyhood, a pleasant and pathetic memory. And for that reason he had a
curious kindness to her boy. That was why he introduced him to his boon
companions. He thought he was doing him a good turn.

It was true that Allan made a phrase with a withered wisp of humanity
like young Wilson. Not that he failed to see through him, for he
christened him "a dried washing-clout." But Allan, like most
great-hearted Scots far from their native place, saw it through a veil
of sentiment; harsher features that would have been ever-present to his
mind if he had never left it disappeared from view, and left only the
finer qualities bright within his memory. And idealizing the place he
idealized its sons. To him they had a value not their own, just because
they knew the brig and the burn and the brae, and had sat upon the
school benches. He would have welcomed a dog from Barbie. It was from a
like generous emotion that he greeted the bodies so warmly on his visits
home--he thought they were as pleased to see him as he was to see them.
But they imputed false motives to his hearty greetings. Even as they
shook his hand the mean ones would think to themselves: "What does he
mean by this now? What's he up till? No doubt he'll be wanting something
off me!" They could not understand the gusto with which the returned
exile cried, "Ay, man, Jock Tamson, and how are ye?" They thought such
warmth must have a sinister intention.--A Scot revisiting his native
place ought to walk very quietly. For the parish is sizing him up.

There were two things to be said against Allan, and two only--unless, of
course, you consider drink an objection. Wit with him was less the
moment's glittering flash than the anecdotal bang; it was a fine old
crusted blend which he stored in the cellars of his mind to bring forth
on suitable occasions, as cob-webby as his wine. And it tickled his
vanity to have a crowd of admiring youngsters round him to whom he might
retail his anecdotes, and play the brilliant _raconteur_. He had cronies
of his own years, and he was lordly and jovial amongst them--yet he
wanted another _entourage_. He was one of those middle-aged bachelors
who like a train of youngsters behind them, whom they favour in return
for homage. The wealthy man who had been a peasant lad delighted to act
the jovial host to sons of petty magnates from his home. Batch after
batch a