I knew the words a trifle better than Francesca, and thus succeeded in forestalling her as the fortunate hero-- '“O here I am, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall topmast; But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land.”' And the heroic sailor was right, for 'He hadna gone a step, a step, A step but only ane, When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship, And the saut sea it came in.' Then we fetched a web o' the silken claith, and anither o' the twine, as our captain bade us; we wapped them into our ship's side and letna the sea come in; but in vain, in vain. Laith were the gude Scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shune, but they did, and wat their hats abune; for the ship sank in spite of their despairing efforts, 'And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam' hame.' Francesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins and personate the dishevelled ladies on the strand. “Will your hair come down?” asked the manager gravely. “It will and shall,” we rejoined; and it did. 'The ladies wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair.' “Do tear your hair, Jessie! It's the only thing you have to do, and you never do it on time!” The Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her, and she tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands. 'And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' there gowd kaims i' the hair, A' waitin' for their ain dear luves, For them they'll see nae mair.' I did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah Siddons. “Splendid! Grand!” cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty fathoms below the imaginary surface of the water, and gave explicit ante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves out in like manner. 'Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.' “Oh, it is grand!” he repeated jubilantly. “If I could only be the king and see it all from Dunfermline tower! Could you be Sir Patrick once, do you think, now that I have shown you how?” he asked Francesca. “Indeed I could!” she replied, glowing with excitement (and small wonder) at being chosen for the principal role. “The only trouble is that you do look awfully like a girl in that white frock.” Francesca appeared rather ashamed at her natural disqualifications for the part of Sir Patrick. “If I had only worn my long black cloak!” she sighed. “Oh, I have an idea!” cried the boy. “Hand her the minister's gown from the hedge, Rafe. You see, Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe lent us this old gown for a sail; she's doing something to a new one, and this was her pattern.” Francesca slipped it on over her white serge, and the Pettybaw parson should have seen her with the long veil of her dark locks floating over his ministerial garment.