At the mention of Mary's name in the song, the eyes of Colville involuntarily sought those of her who bore it, and she coloured perceptibly. The performance of Ellinor was duly applauded by Sir Redmond, though he afterwards confided to Colville it was 'the silliest piece of Scotch twaddle' he had ever heard. Yet his admiration of Ellinor personally was open and unconcealed, perhaps too much so, and of its own kind was no doubt genuine enough, and while she sang, Ellinor was inwardly hoping her hair was tidy and looked well, as she felt conscious he was gazing straight down on it; while Mary had an uncomfortable feeling that visits from these gentlemen might be misconstrued by Lady Dunkeld, their hostess, and still more so by her daughter--a conviction that at times made her almost cold in her manner to Captain Colville, whom she believed to be that young lady's especial property. And she blamed herself, and blushed for herself, in the consciousness that she sometimes treasured up, and repeated to herself, little things he had said--appeals to her taste, her opinion, and so forth. While Colville, however he was situated with regard to Miss Galloway, made no secret of how he delighted in the quaint frankness of Mary Wellwood since the afternoon he had first met her, when both were fishing in the May. 'And so this locality is full of old legends of fairies and so forth?' said Colville, referring to a previous remark of Mary's. 'Yes; but then every foot of ground in Scotland has about it something historical or legendary--all teems with the past.' 'The present is more to my taste, Miss Wellwood,' said Sleath, twirling out his straw-coloured moustache. 'It would not be so if you lived always, as we do, under the shadow of the Ochil mountains.' 'I agree with you, by Jove.' But Mary did not perceive that they misunderstood each other. 'Sir Redmond is guiltless of romance as any man living, I believe, Miss Wellwood,' said Captain Colville, 'but London life makes one sadly prosaic and incredulous.' 'Has it made you so?' 'I hope not--I can scarcely say. But did not my old friend Dr. Wodrow hint that some old legend is connected with those stones, or the ruin, on yonder knoll by the river?' 'The Holy Hill?' 'Yes.' 'Ah,' said Mary, as a smile rippled over her bright face, 'that is not a legend--it is history.' 'About what?' 'A miller's daughter who married a king.' 'Then it is a tale of the days "When King Cophetua loved the beggar maid."' 'Something of that kind. But in the remoter ages of Scottish history the Holy Hill was the site of a royal residence; for there King Kenneth II. died, and there Malcolm III. was born--he who married Margaret of England.' 'These things didn't happen yesterday,' said Colville, smiling down into her earnest and animated face.