"Yes, but only by the accident of birth," said George Bethune, instantly, as if he must needs guard against any misapprehension. "Every drop of blood in her veins is Scotch—and of a right good quality too. Well, you have heard—you have heard. Do you think any one could understand those old Scotch airs who was not herself Scotch in heart and soul?" "I never heard anything so beautiful," the young man answered, in an undertone; indeed, he seemed hardly capable of talking about her, any more than he could fix his eyes steadily on her face. His forced glances were timorous and fugitive. There was something sacred—that kept him at a distance. It was enough to be conscious that she was there; his only prayer was that she should remain; that he and she should be together, if a little way apart, looking at the same skies and water and trees, breathing the same air, hearkening to the same sounds. So he kept on talking to the old man, in rather a nervous and eager fashion, fearful all the time that either of them should propose to go. And thus it came about that Vincent Harris seemed to have a good deal to say for himself; he appeared to forget that he was speaking to two strangers; rather he was chatting with two neighbours, whom he wished to be his friends. And the old man, in his self-sufficient and dignified way, was quite content to encourage this new acquaintance. His conversation was something to pass the time withal; he was modest, well-mannered, intelligent; there was an air of distinction about him that showed good up-bringing as well as some decision of character. No doubt he was of a wealthy family, or he could not have spent so much of his time in travel; by accident he had mentioned one or two well-known people as though he were in the habit of familiarly meeting with them; from some passing hint as to the nature of his studies, Mr. Bethune gathered that this pleasant-spoken, pleasant-smiling neighbour was destined for a public career. There was even something interesting, to one who had grown old and callous of the world’s shows, in noting the bright enthusiasm of the young man, the clear light in his eyes, the general air of strength and ease and courage that sate lightly on him, as befitting one who was in the very May-morn of his youth. But at last, for shame’s sake, Vincent had himself to rise and break up this all too-attractive companionship. He said, with great humility: "I am sure I ought to apologise to Miss Bethune for having taken up so much of your time. Rather an unwarrantable intrusion; but I don’t think there is any chance of the rain coming now—and—and—so I will say good-bye." "Good-bye—glad to have made your acquaintance," said old George Bethune, with a grave courtesy.