Souter looked around him with a sickly smile. He had not thought to be cornered in this manner, when he had filled his wife’s mind with stories of past grandeur and noble connections, and it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Er—didna’ ye ken that, Robbie?” he exclaimed with a look of feigned surprise on his reddened face. “Och, yes! By the by, Robbie,” he continued quickly, anxious to change the subject, “we came o’er to tell ye that we are gang to Brow on our honeymoon.” Here Eppy giggled and looked bashfully out of the window. “An’ my wife, Mrs. MacDougall,” with a flourish of the hand in her direction, which elicited another giggle from the lady in question, “has decided that we want ye to gang alang wi’ us.” Robert looked at him, then at Eppy in speechless surprise. Jean gave a little gasp, and her hand sought her husband’s arm and pressed it with delight. “Souter,” faltered Robert, “ye’re both doing this out of the kindness of your hearts, but I canna——” “We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be stubborn wi’ your lofty independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns, and I say it is settled,” said Souter. “’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly. “God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand affectionately. “Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.” “But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued Robert, “nothing better than Highland whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of becoming intoxicated, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and now passed it around among the guests. “For auld lang syne!” cried Robert feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive? My lord, a toast,” and he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation, proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard.” “We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy. “Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And while the toast was being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged him significantly. Robert smiled and assured him of his secrecy. “And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face, “here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed her glass with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s amusement. “Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert. “What?” she cried, opening her eyes in amazement.