"Balloray, in Fife. Perhaps you have never heard of the Balloray law-suit, and I will not inflict any history of it upon you at present," he continued, with lofty complaisance. "I was merely saying that poverty is not so hard to bear when there are brighter possibilities always before you. If, in our case, we are barred in law by the Statute of Limitations, there is no Statute of Limitations in the chapter of accidents. And some remarkable instances have occurred. I remember one in which a father, two sons, and a daughter were all drowned at once by the sinking of a ship, and the property went bodily over to the younger branch of the family, who had been penniless for years. It is the unexpected that happens, according to the saying; and so we move from day to day towards fresh possibilities; and who can tell what morning may not bring us a summons to make straight for the Kingdom of Fife? Not for myself do I care; I am too old now; it is for my granddaughter here; and I should pass happily away and contented if I could leave her in sole and undisputed possession of the ancient lands of the Bethunes of Balloray." What pang was this that shot through Vincent’s heart? He suddenly saw Maisrie removed from him—a great heiress—unapproachable—guarded by this old man with his unconquerable pride of lineage and birth. _She_ might not forget old friends; but _he_? The Harris family had plenty of money; but they had nothing to add to the fesse between three mascles, _or_, and the otter’s head; nor had any of their ancestors, so far as was known, accompanied Margaret of Scotland on her marriage with the Dauphin of France, or taken arms along with the great Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully. In imagination the young man saw himself a lonely pedestrian in Fifeshire, regarding from a distance a vast baronial building set amid black Scotch firs and lighter larches, and not daring even to draw near the great gate with the otter’s head in stone over the archway. He saw the horses being brought round to the front entrance—a beautiful white Arab and a sturdy cob: the hall door opens—the heiress of Balloray descends the wide stone steps—she is assisted to mount, and pats that beautiful white creature on the neck. And will she presently come cantering by—her long hair flowing to the winds, as fair as it used to be in the olden days when the shifting lights and mists of Hyde Park gave it ever-varying hues? Can he steal aside somewhere?—he has no desire to claim recognition! She has forgotten the time when, in the humble lodgings she used to sing "_Je ne puis rien donner, qu’ mon coeur en mariage_"; she has wide domains now; and wears an ancient historic name. And so she goes along the white highway, and under the swaying boughs of the beeches, until she is lost in a confusion of green and gold...