“Ye ken mair than's in the catecheesm,” remarked Salemina, yawning a little as she put away her darning-ball. “It is pathetic to see you waste your time painting mediocre pictures, when as a lecturer upon love you could instruct your thousands.” “The thousands would never satisfy me,” I retorted, “so long as you remained uninstructed, for in your single person you would so swell the sum of human ignorance on that subject that my teaching would be for ever in vain.” “Very clever indeed! Well, what will Mr. Monroe say to me when I return to New York without his daughter, or with his son-in-law?” “He has never denied Francesca anything in her life; why should he draw the line at a Scotsman? I am much more concerned about Mr. Macdonald's congregation.” “I am not anxious about that,” said Salemina loyally. “Francesca would be the life of an Inchcaldy parish.” “I dare say,” I observed, “but she might be the death of the pastor.” “I am ashamed of you, Penelope; or I should be if you meant what you say. She can make the people love her if she tries; when did she ever fail at that? But with Mr. Macdonald's talent, to say nothing of his family connections, he is sure to get a church in Edinburgh in a few years if he wishes. Undoubtedly, it would not be a great match in a money sense. I suppose he has a manse and three or four hundred pounds a year.” “That sum would do nicely for cabs.” “Penelope, you are flippant!” “I don't mean it, dear; it's only for fun; and it would be so absurd if we should leave Francesca over here as the presiding genius of an Inchcaldy parsonage--I mean a manse!” “It isn't as if she were penniless,” continued Salemina; “she has fortune enough to assure her own independence, and not enough to threaten his--the ideal amount. I hardly think the good Lord's first intention was to make her a minister's wife, but He knows very well that Love is a master architect. Francesca is full of beautiful possibilities if Mr. Macdonald is the man to bring them out, and I am inclined to think he is.” “He has brought out impishness so far,” I objected. “The impishness is transitory,” she returned, “and I am speaking of permanent qualities. His is the stronger and more serious nature, Francesca's the sweeter and more flexible. He will be the oak-tree, and she will be the sunshine playing in the branches.” “Salemina, dear,” I said penitently, kissing her grey hair, “I apologise: you are not absolutely ignorant about Love, after all, when you call him the master architect; and that is very lovely and very true about the oak-tree and the sunshine.” Chapter XXIII. Ballad revels at Rowardennan. '“Love, I maun gang to Edinbrugh, Love, I maun gang an' leave thee!” She sighed right sair, an' said nae mair But “O gin I were wi' ye!”' Andrew Lammie.