"Hobson!" she exclaimed; and at this awful sound the bold warrior seemed to collapse into a limp rag. "I am surprised—I am _indeed_ surprised! Really, sir, how can you encourage him in such impudence? Seated at your own table and drinking too, I declare," she went on, as she lifted up the deserted tumbler—for her bellicose husband had hastily picked up his MSS. and vanished from the room. "Really, sir, such familiarity!" "In the republic of letters, my good Mrs. Hobson," said Mr. Bethune with a smile, "all men are equal. I have been much interested in some of your husband’s writings." "Oh, sir, don’t put sich things in his ’ead!" she said, as she proceeded to lay the cloth for dinner. "He’s a fool, and that’s bad enough; but if so be as you put things in his ’ead, and he giving of hisself airs, it’ll be hawful! What good he is to anybody, I don’t know. He won’t clean a winder or black a boot even." "How can you expect it?" George Bethune said, in perfect good humour. "Manual labour would be a degradation. Men of genius ought to be supported by the State." "In the workus, I suppose," she said, sharply—but here Maisrie Bethune came upstairs and into the room, carrying some parcels in her hand, and instantly the landlady’s face changed its expression, and became as amiable and smiling as the gaunt features would allow. At dinner the old man told his granddaughter that he had procured (he did not say how) places at the —— Theatre for the following evening, and seemed to be pleased about this little break in their quiet lives. "But why did you go to such expense, grandfather?" Maisrie said. "You know I am quite happy enough in spending the evening at home with you. And every day now I ask myself when I am to begin copying the poems—for the volume, you know. You have sent for them to America, haven’t you? But really you have such a wonderful memory, grandfather, I believe you could repeat them all—and I could write them down—and let the printers have them. I was so glad when you let me help you with the book you published in Montreal; and you know my writing is clear enough; you remember what the foreman printer said? Don’t you think we could begin to-night, grandfather? It pleases you to repeat those beautiful verses—you are so fond of them—and proud of them because they are written by Scotchmen—and I am sure it would be a delight to me to write them out for you." "Oh, yes, yes," he said, fretfully, "but not to-night. You’re always in such a hurry, Maisrie." And then he added, in a gentler way, "Well, it is a wonderful blessing, a good memory. I never want for a companion, when I’ve a Scotch air or a Scotch song humming through my brain. On the darkest and wettest day, here in this big city, what have you to do but think of ’The broom, the yellow, yellow broom, The broom o’ the Cowdenknowes,’