Lady Barbara enjoined Lord Ipsden to watch these people, and not to lose a word they said; and, after she had insisted upon kissing Christie, she went off to her carriage. And she too was so happy, she cried three distinct times on her way to Edinburgh. Lord Ipsden, having reminded Gatty of his engagement, begged him to add his mother and Christie to the party, and escorted Lady Barbara to her phaeton. So then the people dispersed by degrees. “That old lady's face seems familiar to me,” said Lord Ipsden, as he stood on the little natural platform by the “Peacock.” “Do you know who she is, Saunders?” “It is Peggy, that was cook in your lordship's uncle's time, my lord. She married a green-grocer,” added Saunders, with an injured air. “Hech! hech!” cried Flucker, “Christie has ta'en up her head wi' a cook's son.” Mrs. Gatty was ushered into the “Peacock” with mock civility by Mr. Saunders. No recognition took place, each being ashamed of the other as an acquaintance. The next arrival was a beautiful young lady in a black silk gown, a plain but duck-like plaid shawl, who proved to be Christie Johnstone, in her Sunday attire. When they met, Mrs. Gatty gave a little scream of joy, and said: “Oh, my child; if I had seen you in that dress, I should never have said a word against you.” “Pars minima est ipsa puella sui!” His lordship stepped up to her, took off his hat, and said: “Will Mrs. Gatty take from me a commission for two pictures, as big as herself, and as bonny?” added he, doing a little Scotch. He handed her a check; and, turning to Gatty, added, “At your convenience, sir, _bien entendu.”_ “Hech! it's for five hundred pund, Chairles.” “Good gear gangs in little book,” * said Jean. *Bulk. “Ay, does it,” replied Flucker, assuming the compliment. “My lord!” said the artist, “you treat Art like a prince; and she shall treat you like a queen. When the sun comes out again, I will work for you and fame. You shall have two things painted, every stroke loyally in the sunlight. In spite of gloomy winter and gloomier London, I will try if I can't hang nature and summer on your walls forever. As for me, you know I must go to Gerard Dow and Cuyp, and Pierre de Hoogh, when my little sand is run; but my handwriting shall warm your children's children's hearts, sir, when this hand is dust.” His eye turned inward, he walked to and fro, and his companions died out of his sight--he was in the kingdom of art. His lordship and Jean entered the “Peacock,” followed by Flucker, who merely lingered at the door to moralize as follows: “Hech! hech! isna thaat lamentable? Christie's mon's as daft as a drunk weaver.” But one stayed quietly behind, and assumed that moment the office of her life.