The speaker was a young man about Cuthbert’s own age, who like himself had newly begun to encounter on his own behalf the cares and responsibilities of business. They had come together through the training of the High School and College, and now were great friends and allies, furthering each others progress, by all means in their power. “Advertise,” said the laconic Cuthbert, from behind the folds of his newspaper. “Oh, oracle!” answered Mr. David Lindsay, throwing down a black crumpled “_Times_,” which struck upon the fair broadsheet of “_The Scotsman_,” and compelled the reader’s attention. “And suppose I have advertised, and failed--what then?” “It’s a cold day, Davie,” responded the learned advocate. “Sit down, Lord Lion, and tell me all about it.” “I say, Cuthbert, there’s a story,” said the W.S., mysteriously. Cuthbert stirred the fire, and prepared to listen. “Up near the links of Forth, there is a gray old house called Allenders,” said Lindsay, with some importance, “and in the house there dwells a family as your penetration will guess--or rather, dwelt a family--for they are now extinguished--Allenders of Allenders--and between four and five hundred a-year; now that’s what I want a man for, Cuthbert.” “Between four and five hundred a-year,” repeated Cuthbert gravely. “I would take it myself, to oblige you, Davie.” “Thank you--I could get lots,” said the representative of the poet King-at-Arms. “But the right man, Charteris--by-the-bye, I should say the right woman--the right two women--where to lay my hands on them!--” “So the heir is extant after all,” said Cuthbert; “you know that, do you?” “Wait a little, and I’ll tell you what I know. They have always been a highly respectable family, these Allenders, mind, and you know what that means; comfortable, slow, common-sense folk, with no hair-brained sentimental traces about them. Well! the last father of them had seven sons--there was no appearance of a lack of heirs then--and one of the sons, the third or fourth I think, took it into his head to be a--what is your newest philosophical name for it--the Allenders said a sentimental fool--which means, you know, that he married somebody.” “I beg to assure you that there is no sort of philosophy in that achievement, Lion,” said Cuthbert. “Don’t interrupt me, Charteris--why, man, a romantic episode in the history of a dull family is a treasure. This son--his name was John--everybody’s name is John--married some poor girl or other in Stirling; and thereupon followed a regular tragic disowning of the refractory son. The good people were startled out of their propriety; never an Allenders had been known before, to do anything out of the ordinary jog-trot, and the example of his daring aroused his father and his brethren. They cast him out--they banished him from the paternal countenance, and from all hope of ever inheriting the paternal acres, and so left him to seek his fortune, as he best could. That was seventy years ago.”