The young nobleman begged her to be seated; she merely thanked him, and moved away a little distance, to a table on which were some illustrated books; so that the two men were left free to talk as they chose. "Well now, that seems a very admirable project of yours, Mr. Bethune," Lord Musselburgh said, in his frank and off-hand way. "There’s plenty of Scotch blood in my own veins, as you know; and I am glad of any good turn that can be done to poor old Scotland. I see you are not ashamed of the national garb." "You remember what was said on a famous occasion," the old man made answer, speaking methodically and emphatically, and with a strong northern accent, "and I will own that I hoped your lordship’s heart would ’warm to the tartan.’ For it is a considerable undertaking, after all. The men are scattered; and their verses are scattered; but, scattered or no scattered, there is everywhere and always in them the same sentiment—the sentiment of loyalty and gratitude and admiration for the land of the hills and the glens. And surely, as your lordship says, it is doing a good turn to poor old Scotland to show the world that wherever her sons may be—in Canada, in Florida, out on the plains, or along the Californian coast—they do not forget the mother that bore them—no, but that they are proud of her, and think always of her, and regard her with an undying affection and devotion." He was warming to his work. There was a vibration in his voice, as he proceeded to repeat the lines— "From the lone shieling on the misty island, Mountains divide them and a world of seas; But still their hearts are true, their hearts are Highland, And they in dreams behold the Hebrides." "Is that by one of your Scotch-American friends?" Lord Musselburgh asked, with a smile; for he was looking curiously, and not without a certain sympathetic interest, at this old man. "I do not know, your lordship; at the moment I could not tell you," was the answer. "But this I do know, that a man may be none the less a good Canadian or American citizen because of his love for the heather hills that nourished his infancy, and inspired his earliest imagination. He does not complain of the country that has given him shelter, nor of the people who have welcomed him and made him one of themselves. He only says with Crichton’s emigrant shepherd— "’Wae’s me that fate us twa has twined’ —’twined’ is severed: perhaps your lordship is not so familiar with the dialect— "’Wae’s me that fate us twa has twined; And I serve strangers ower the sea; Their hearts are leal, their words are kind, But, lass, it isna hame to me!’