Mr. Cuthbert Charteris looked a little foolish, and withdrew into the shadow of the curtain, which fortunately was green, and neutralised the slight unusual flush upon his face. “One forgets these girls’ names,” he said, with a short laugh, “though this is rather a pretty one. The elder one is Martha, you know, mother--a grave enough name to make up for the romance of the other two--the intermediate young lady is Rose.” “How old is she, Cuthbert?” interrogated his mother. “I really am no judge--I could hardly guess--quite young though,” said Cuthbert hurriedly, “but the similarity of names is very striking, and if I could trace out a relationship, I should be exceedingly pleased, mother; besides, that one is bound, as a matter of duty, to assist in proving a birthright in any circumstances--and this young man will never do in business, it is clear--whereas he might make a capital country gentleman.” Mrs. Charteris was a little prejudiced. She shook her head: “It is not so easy to make a gentleman, Cuthbert; the transition from sixty pounds a-year to five hundred, though it must be very comfortable, no doubt, will never accomplish that.” “Harry Muir, mother,” said Cuthbert, “is not a wise man by any means--at five and twenty, I scarcely think I was very wise myself--but Harry Muir with his sixty pounds, is a gentleman already. I am afraid Dick Buchanan would suffer very greatly, if you saw them together, and compared the two.” “Ritchie Buchanan is your cousin, Cuthbert,” said the old lady, warmly. “He is called after my father, who _was_ a gentleman, though he was not so rich as his son. To be sure these laddies were very loud the last time I saw them, and I believe Ritchie had a ring, and no glove upon his hand--but still, Cuthbert, you must not be an ill bird.” “Well, we shall see,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “Wait till I show you Harry Muir, mother--no discredit to Dick, or any of them--but my uncle’s clerk is a very different person; poor fellow!--if he only had half as much prudence as the youngest of them, it would be better for him. He is of that class, who, people say, are nobody’s enemies but their own.” “And that is just the most hopeless class of all, Cuthbert,” said Mrs. Charteris; “you may cure a bad man that has pith--you may turn a vessel that is ballasted and steady, into another course--but for your bits of gay pleasure-boats that float with the stream--alack and woe is me! It is a hopeless work, Cuthbert: you never tried your hand at anything so vain.” “That is the sister’s work, not mine, mother,” said Cuthbert, “and I can believe it is not a very promising one--but in the meantime, I must try and lay my hands upon the clue which will conduct Davie Lindsay to his end, and give him an heir to Allenders. Of course, I will not speak of it to the family, till I have ascertained something more about these names--but I think the result is very likely to be what I heartily wish it may.”