“I have been deceived; I must have my money back!” said Hirsch, and the old man shrugged his shoulders and took snuff. “Na, na!” he said. “A bargain’s aye a bargain, and ye canna get your money back. The best I can dae for ye is to swop the cup ye sent for the one I lent ye.” “Look here, Meldrum—” Hirsch began, and Harris, with surprise, corrected him. “Not Meldrum,” he remarked. “Sir Gilbert Quair.” “Ye’re both of ye right, and ye’re both of ye wrang,” said the old man with a chuckle. “For twa years back I’ve been guide to my own collection; it’s the only way to keep an eye upon the shillin’s.” “You d—d old rogue!” exclaimed the partners simultaneously, and he grinned at them, with his stout old breast across the doorway like a cliff. For a little he gloated on their fury, then took them by the arms and led them out upon the terrace. “You see this land,” he said, and indicated all the hills and valleys, verdant woods and furrowed fields, and the river sounding at the bend below the mansion. “The greed of English thieves brought them here marauding for good six hundred years, and it seems ye’re no done yet! My forefolk fought you with the sword, but Gilbert Meldrum Quair must fight you with his wits!” “But, Gott in Himmel! we are not English; we are Hebrews!” protested Hirsch with his hands palm upwards and his neck contracted. “That is worse,” replied Sir Gilbert, making for his door. “We Scots are still at feud wi’ the Jews for what they did out yonder in Jerusalem.” “COPENHAGEN”: A CHARACTER. WHEN I go home on summer visitations, old friends, with the most generous desire to aid one in an eccentric and indeed half-daft and wholly disreputable way of living, come to me covertly in reckless moments “for auld lang syne,” and remind me of native characters ancient or modern. They themselves are (if they only knew it) characters the most superb for any of my purposes, but, wholly unsuspecting, they narrate the whims and oddities, the follies and conceits of others, lamenting always that the race of characters is rapidly running done. “When Jiah, and Jocka, and Old Split-a-dale are gone,” say they, “we’ll can take to reading your own bits of stories, for there’ll be nothing better left to do, and not a ploy from Martinmas to Whitsunday and back again.” I know better, of course. I know that unconventional characters—fantastic, whimsical, bombastic, awkward, crazed—will come to the surface there and elsewhere as constant as the bracken comes upon the braes in spring.