The garden was a curious old-fashioned place, with high hedges, and close alleys of trees, where two might have wandered long without meeting, and it was some time before he found any hint of the presence of the marquis. At length, however, he heard voices, and following the sound, walked along one of the alleys till he came to a little arbour, where he discovered the marquis seated, and, to his surprise, the white-robed lady of the sands beside him. A great deer-hound at his master’s feet was bristling his mane, and baring his eye-teeth with a growl, but the girl had a hold of his collar. “Who are _you_?” asked the marquis rather gruffly, as if he had never seen him before. “I beg yer lordship’s pardon,” said Malcolm, “but they telled me yer lordship wantit to see me, and sent me to the flooer-garden. Will I gang, or will I bide?” The marquis looked at him for a moment, frowningly, and made no reply. But the frown gradually relaxed before Malcolm’s modest but unflinching gaze, and the shadow of a smile slowly usurped its place. He still kept silent, however. “Am I to gang or bide, my lord?” repeated Malcolm. “Can’t you wait for an answer?” “As lang ’s yer lordship likes--Will I gang an’ walk aboot, mem --my leddy--till his lordship’s made up his min’? Wad that please him, duv ye think?” he said, in the tone of one who seeks advice. But the girl only smiled, and the marquis said, “Go to the devil.” “I maun luik to yer lordship for the necessar’ directions,” rejoined Malcolm. “Your tongue’s long enough to inquire as you go,” said the marquis. A reply in the same strain rushed to Malcolm’s lips, but he checked himself in time, and stood silent, with his bonnet in his hand, fronting the two. The marquis sat gazing as if he had nothing to say to him, but after a few moments the lady spoke--not to Malcolm, however. “Is there any danger in boating here, papa?” she said. “Not more, I daresay, than there ought to be,” replied the marquis listlessly. “Why do you ask?” “Because I should so like a row! I want to see how the shore looks to the mermaids.” “Well, I will take you some day, if we can find a proper boat.” “Is yours a proper boat?” she asked, turning to Malcolm with a sparkle of fun in her eyes. “That depen’s on my lord’s definition o’ _proper_.” “Definition!” repeated the marquis. “Is ’t ower lang a word, my lord?” asked Malcolm. The marquis only smiled. “I ken what ye mean. It’s a strange word in a fisher-lad’s mou’, ye think. But what for sudna a fisher-lad hae a smatterin’ o’ loagic, my lord? For Greek or Laitin there’s but sma’ opportunity o’ exerceese in oor pairts; but for loagic, a fisher-body may aye haud his han’ in that. He can aye be tryin’ ’t upo’ ’s wife, or ’s guid-mither, or upo’ ’s boat, or upo’ the fish whan they winna tak. Loagic wad save a heap o’ cursin’ an’ ill words--amo’ the fisher-fowk, I mean, my lord.” “Have you been to college?”