"I don’t see why they shouldn’t hold a public meeting," said she, as she handed him back the bill. "Why, there will be a public riot!" he said. "You haven’t seen the great placards they have pasted up on the walls—done with a big brush—I suppose they were afraid to print them; but if you go down through the village you will see what they’re after. ’_Sweep the sheep off Meall-na-Fearn_’—’_Take back the land_’—’_A general march into Glen Orme_.’" "Glen Orme deer-forest has nothing to do with me," she said. "Do you think they will draw such fine distinctions?" he retorted. "I can tell you, when once the march has begun, they won’t stop to ask whose fences they are tearing down; and a shot or two fired through your windows is about the least you can expect. And that is what comes of coddling people: they think they can terrorise over you whenever they choose—they welcome any kind of agitator, and think they’re going to have it all their own way. And can’t you see who suggested the Twelfth to them? I’ll bet it was that fellow Ross—a clever trick!—either we lose the opening day of the shooting—and that would make him laugh like a cat—or else we leave the place free for those parading blackguards to plunder at their will." "At all events, Miss Stanley," interposed Frank Meredyth, in a calmer manner, "there can be no harm in postponing our grouse shooting until the Tuesday. I think it will be better for Fred and myself to be about the premises—and the keepers too—until this little disturbance has blown over." "Who are those people?" she said, taking back the paper and regarding it. "Mr. Ogden I know something of—mostly from pictures of him in _Punch_; but I thought it was strikes and trade unions in the north of England that he busied himself with. What has brought him to Scotland?" "Why, wherever there is mischief to be stirred up—and notoriety to be earned for himself—that is enough for a low Radical of that stamp!" her brother said. He was a young man, and his convictions were round and complete. "And Miss Ernestine Simon—-who is she?" "Oh, you don’t know Ernestine?" said Frank Meredyth, with a smile. "Oh yes, surely! Ernestine, the famous _pétroleuse_, who fought at the Buttes Chaumont and got wounded in the scramble through Belleville? You must have heard of her, surely! Well, Ernestine is getting old now; but there is still something of the sacred fire about her—a sort of _mouton enragé_ desperation: she can use whirling words, as far as her broken English goes." "And Mrs. Noyes?" Mary continued. "Who is Mrs. Jackson Noyes, from Connecticut?" "There I am done," he confessed. "I never heard of Mrs. Jackson Noyes in any capacity whatever. But I can imagine the sort of person she is likely to be." "And what do those people know about the Highlands?" Mary demanded again.