“It's you mak me bauld,” was the instant reply. “I saw ye face the mad sea, to save a ship fra' the rocks, an' will I fear a mon's hand, when I can save” _(rising to double her height)_ “my feyther's auld freend fra' the puir mon's enemy, the enemy o' mankind, the cursed, cursed drink? Oh, Sandy Liston, hoow could ye think to put an enemy in your mooth to steal awa your brains!” “This 's no Newhaven chat; wha lairns ye sic words o' power?” “A deed mon!” “I would na wonder, y' are no canny; she's ta'en a' the poower oot o' my body, I think.” Then suddenly descending to a tone of abject submission, “What's your pleesure, Flucker Johnstone's dochter?” She instantly withdrew the offending grasp, and, leaning affectionately on his shoulder, she melted into her rich Ionic tones. “It's no a time for sin; ye'll sit by my fire, an' get your dinner; a bonny haggis hae I for you an' Flucker, an' we'll improve this sorrowfu' judgment; an' ye'll tell me o' auld times--o' my feyther dear, that likeit ye weel, Sandy--o' the storrms ye hae weathered, side by side--o' the muckle whales ye killed Greenland way--an' abune a', o' the lives ye hae saved at sea, by your daurin an' your skell; an', oh, Sandy, will na that be better as sit an' poor leequid damnation doown your throat, an' gie awa the sense an' feeling o' a mon for a sair heed and an ill name?” “I'se gang, my lamb,” said the rough man, quite subdued; “I daur say whisky will no pass my teeth the day.” And so he went quietly away, and sat by Christie's fireside. Jean and Christie went toward the boats. Jean, after taking it philosophically for half a minute, began to whimper. “What's wrang?” said Christie. “Div ye think my hairt's no in my mooth wi' you gripping yon fierce robber?” Here a young fishwife, with a box in her hand, who had followed them, pulled Jean by the coats. “Hets,” said Jean, pulling herself free. The child then, with a pertinacity these little animals have, pulled Christie's coats. “Hets,” said Christie, freeing herself more gently. “Ye suld mairry Van Amburgh,” continued Jean; “ye are just such a lass as he is a lad.” Christie smiled proudly, was silent, but did not disown the comparison. The little fishwife, unable to attract attention by pulling, opened her box, and saying, “Lasses, I'll let ye see my presoner. Hech! he's boenny!” pulled out a mouse by a string fastened to his tail and set him in the midst for friendly admiration. “I dinna like it--I dinna like it!” screamed Christie. “Jean, put it away--it fears me, Jean!” This she uttered (her eyes almost starting from her head with unaffected terror) at the distance of about eight yards, whither she had arrived in two bounds that would have done no discredit to an antelope. “Het,” said Jean, uneasily, “hae ye coowed you savage, to be scared at the wee beastie?”