They followed her out into the sunshine, where, in a solemn semi-circle, they found half-a-dozen or more of men and halflings, headed, of course, by old John Macpherson as spokesman. He held a wine glass in one hand, a black bottle in the other, and the liltiness of his attitude, joined to a watery benevolence in his eye, told a tale of previous exertions towards the laird's good health. It was evident that, for the time being, he was an optimist, viewing the world as the best of all possible worlds. A glass more, and he would be ready to defend the proposition with his fists; another, and he would have wept over its denial, for Aladdin's genii of the bottle was not more powerful in metamorphosis than Scotch whiskey was on John Macpherson. "An' here's to you, Gleneira," he said, when Paul returned the glass. "An' it's wissing you as rich as the Duke o' Wellington--Pech! Mistress Cameron, but yon's gude whiskey--water never touched it." Even the refilled glass, as it passed from hand to hand, seemed to have a vicarious effect on old John, who waxed more and more lilty, and finally, when the others moved off, lingered for an audible whisper, accompanied by an admiring glance at the laird. "Gorsh! Miss Marjory, wass I no tellin' you he was bonnie, and iss he not bonnie, whatever?" "A leading question, John," said Paul, readily; "witness can't be expected to answer it." But the argumentative mood was beginning. "An' what for no. Miss Marjory will be a Highland lass, an' a Highland lass will no be so shamefast, but they will be knowing a bonnie lad when they see one." "I quite agree with you, John," said the girl, quickly, with a suspicion of both a frown and a smile on her face. Paul Macleod, as he walked home, found himself fully occupied in trying, as it were, to piece the girl's character together to his satisfaction. She was a novel experience, a pleasant one into the bargain. So when she came to breakfast next morning, a bouquet of hot-house flowers lay on her plate with Captain Macleod's best wishes for her birthday. "I think it is very kind of him," she said judicially, in reply to Mrs. Cameron's rapture over the laird's condescension; "but Peter Morrison will be furious at having his show spoilt. And he has amputated the poor things at the knee. Men ought never to pick flowers, they don't understand them, except gardeners, and they never want to pick them at all."