“Of course,” was the answer. “All titles are. What is popularity? ask Aristides and Lamartine--the breath of a mob--smells of its source--and is gone before the sun can set on it. Now the royal breath does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age.” The story had warmed our marble acquaintance. Saunders opened his eyes, and thought, “We shall wake up the House of Lords some evening--_we_ shall.” His lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the girls: “I think I should like to be a fisherman.” So saying, my lord yawned slightly. To this aspiration the young fishwives deigned no attention, doubting, perhaps, its sincerity; and Christie, with a shade of severity, inquired of him how he came to be a vile count. “A baron's no' a vile count, I'm sure,” said she; “sae tell me how ye came to be a vile count.” “Ah!” said he, “that is by no means a pretty story like the other; you will not like it, I am sure. “Ay, will I--ay, will I; I'm aye seeking knoewledge.” “Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on one seat, in the same house, so one day he got up a--viscount.” “Ower muckle pay for ower little wark.” “Now don't say that; I wouldn't do it to be Emperor of Russia.” “Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' ye; sae noow I'll gang, since ye are no for herrin'; come away, Jean.” At this their host remonstrated, and inquired why bores are at one's service night and day, and bright people are always in a hurry; he was informed in reply, “Labor is the lot o' man. Div ye no ken that muckle? And abune a' o' women.” * * A local idea, I suspect.--C. R. “Why, what can two such pretty creatures have to do except to be admired?” This question coming within the dark beauty's scope, she hastened to reply. “To sell our herrin'--we hae three hundre' left in the creel.” “What is the price?” At this question the poetry died out of Christie Johnstone's face, she gave her companion a rapid look, indiscernible by male eye, and answered: “Three a penny, sirr; they are no plenty the day,” added she, in smooth tones that carried conviction. (Little liar; they were selling six a penny everywhere.) “Saunders, buy them all, and be ever so long about it; count them, or some nonsense.” “He's daft! he's daft! Oh, ye ken, Jean, an Ennglishman and a lorrd, twa daft things thegither, he could na' miss the road. Coont them, lassie.” “Come away, Sandy, till I count them till ye,” said Jean. Saunders and Jean disappeared. Business being out of sight, curiosity revived. “An' what brings ye here from London, if ye please?” recommenced the fair inquisitor. “You have a good countenance; there is something in your face. I could find it in my heart to tell you, but I should bore you.” “De'el a fear! Bore me, bore me! wheat's thaat, I wonder?” “What is your name, madam? Mine is Ipsden.” “They ca' me Christie Johnstone.” “Well, Christie Johnstone, I am under the doctor's hands.”