“But I think not all your friends are hunted exiles,” I exclaimed. “And was this fair to them that care for you? Was it fair to me? was it fair to Miss Grant that counselled you to go, and would be driven fair horn-mad if she could hear of it? Was it even fair to these Gregory folk that you were living with, and used you lovingly? It’s a blessing you have fallen in my hands! Suppose your father hindered by an accident, what would become of you here, and you your lee-lone in a strange place? The thought of the thing frightens me,” I said. “I will have lied to all of them,” she replied. “I will have told them all that I had plenty. I told _her_ too. I could not be lowering James More to them.” I found out later on that she must have lowered him in the very dust, for the lie was originally the father’s, not the daughter’s, and she thus obliged to persevere in it for the man’s reputation. But at the time I was ignorant of this, and the mere thought of her destitution and the perils in which see must have fallen, had ruffled me almost beyond reason. “Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn more sense.” I left her mails for the moment in an inn upon the shore, where I got a direction for Sprott’s house in my new French, and we walked there—it was some little way—beholding the place with wonder as we went. Indeed, there was much for Scots folk to admire: canals and trees being intermingled with the houses; the houses, each within itself, of a brave red brick, the colour of a rose, with steps and benches of blue marble at the cheek of every door, and the whole town so clean you might have dined upon the causeway. Sprott was within, upon his ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat and clean, and set out with china and pictures, and a globe of the earth in a brass frame. He was a big-chafted, ruddy, lusty man, with a crooked hard look to him; and he made us not that much civility as offer us a seat. “Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” says I. “I ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient-like. “Since you are so particular,” says I, “I will amend my question, and ask you where we are to find in Helvoet one James Drummond, _alias_ Macgregor, _alias_ James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?” “Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my part I wish he was.” “The young lady is that gentleman’s daughter, sir,” said I, “before whom, I think you will agree with me, it is not very becoming to discuss his character.” “I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!” cries he in his gross voice. “Under your favour, Mr. Sprott,” said I, “this young lady is come from Scotland seeking him, and by whatever mistake, was given the name of your house for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I think this places both you and me—who am but her fellow-traveller by accident—under a strong obligation to help our countrywoman.”