position he and that foolish mother imagined him to occupy. The anticipation of opposition from his mother naturally strengthened his determination; of opposition on the part of Kirsty, he had not dreamed. He took it as of course that, the moment he stated his intention, Kirsty would be charmed, her mother more than pleased, and the stern old soldier overwhelmed with the honour of alliance with the son of his colonel. I do not doubt, however, that he had an affection for Kirsty far deeper and better than his notion of their relations to each other would indicate. Although it was mainly his pride that suffered in his humiliating dismissal, he had, I am sure, a genuine heartache as he galloped home. When he reached the castle, he left his pony to go where he would, and rushed to his room. There, locking the door that his mother might not enter, he threw himself on his bed in the luxurious consciousness of a much-wronged lover. An uneducated country girl, for as such he regarded her, had cast from her, not without insult, his splendidly generous offer of himself! Poor king Cophetua did not, however, shed many tears for the loss of his recusant beggar-maid. By and by he forgot everything, found he had gone to sleep, and, endeavouring to weep again, did not succeed. He grew hungry soon, and went down to see what was to be had. It was long past the usual hour for dinner, but Mrs. Gordon had not seen him return, and had had it put back--so to make the most of an opportunity of quarrel not to be neglected by a conscientious mother. She let it slide nevertheless. ‘Gracious, you’ve been crying!’ she exclaimed, the moment she saw him. Now certainly Francis had not cried much; his eyes were, notwithstanding, a little red. He had not yet learned to lie, but he might then have made his first essay had he had a fib at his tongue’s end; as he had not, he gloomed deeper, and made no answer. ‘You’ve been fighting!’ said his mother. ‘I haena,’ he returned with rude indignation. ‘Gien I had been, div ye think I wud hae grutten?’ ‘You forget yourself, laird!’ remarked Mrs. Gordon, more annoyed with his Scotch than the tone of it. ‘I would have you remember I am mistress of the house!’ ‘Till I marry, mother!’ rejoined her son. ‘Oblige me in the meantime,’ she answered, ‘by leaving vulgar language outside it.’ Francis was silent; and his mother, content with her victory, and in her own untruthfulness of nature believing he had indeed been fighting and had had the worse of it, said no more, but began to pity and pet him. A pot of his favourite jam presently consoled the love-wounded hero--in the acceptance of which consolation he showed himself far less unworthy than many a grown man, similarly circumstanced, in the choice of his. CHAPTER X DAVID AND FRANCIS