Dr. Brown draws some charming pictures of the great man and the little child together, Marjorie teaching him nursery rhymes:—“He used to say when he came to Alibi Crackaby he broke down. Pin-Pan, Musky-Dan, Tweedle-um, Tweedle-um made him roar with laughter. He said Musky Dan especially was beyond his endurance, bringing up an Irishman and his hat fresh from the Spice Islands and odoriferous Ind; she getting quite bitter in her displeasure at his ill behaviour and stupidity. Then he would read ballads to her in his own glorious way, the two getting wild with excitement over _Gil Morrice_ or the _Baron of Smailholm_, and he would take her on his knees and make her repeat Constance’s speeches in _King John_ till he swayed to and fro sobbing his fill.” The year before she died she was at a Twelfth Night Supper at Scott’s in Castlestreet. The company had all come—all but Marjorie; and all were dull because Scott was dull. “Where’s that bairn? What can have come over her? I’ll go myself and see!” And he was getting up, and would have gone, when the bell rang, and in came Duncan Roy and his henchman Dougal, with the Sedan chair which was brought right into the lobby and its top raised. And there in its darkness and dingy old cloth sat Maidie in white, her eyes gleaming, and Scott bending over her in ecstacy. “Sit ye there, my dautie, till they all see you,” and forthwith he brought them all. You can fancy the scene. And he lifted her up and marched to his seat with her on his stout shoulder, and set her down beside him; and then began the night, and such a night! Those who knew Scott best said that night was never equalled. Maidie and he were the stars; and she gave them Constance’s speeches, and Helvellyn, and all her repertoire, Scott showing her off, and being oftimes rebuked by her for his intentional blunders. Perhaps the prudent mother at home in Kirkcaldy began to fear the effects of all this notoriety and excitement on her little daughter’s character. At all events she did not leave her in Edinburgh very many months after this. In July, 1811, Marjorie bade good-bye to her darling Isabella and returned to Kirkcaldy. We have letters of hers, mainly to Isa, to fill up the simple story of the next few months. In one of them, she refers to an epidemic of measles. Little did Isabella think, as she laughed over the quaint phrases, that there was something ominous in it. In November Marjorie herself fell a victim to the epidemic, and was very ill for many weeks. It was a strange Maidie even to those who knew her best that developed in this illness—a very patient, submissive, and quiet Maidie, who liked best to lie still and think. One day as she was lying very still her mother asked her if there was anything she wished. “Oh, yes. If you would just leave the room door open a wee bit, and play the ‘Land o’ the Leal,’ and I will lie and think and enjoy myself.”