"Of the Bethunes?—then you are of the same family?" said Mrs. Ellison, this time with a little genuine curiosity. But the interruption had the effect of rousing him from his historical reverie. "I would rather say," he observed, with some stiffness, "that they were originally of our family. The Norman de Bethune would easily be changed into the Scotch Beaton." "Then there was Mary Beaton, of the Queen’s Maries," Mrs. Ellison suggested. But at this the old man frowned: he did not wish any fictitious characters brought into these authentic annals. "An idle tale—a popular rhyme," said he. "There is no real foundation for the story of Mary Hamilton that ever I could get hold of. Of course there may have been a Mary Beaton at Queen Mary’s court—what more likely?—and Mary Beaton would come trippingly to the popular tongue in conjunction with Mary Seton; but that is all. It is with real people, and important people, I shall have to deal when I get to the Advocates Library in Edinburgh." "Oh, yes, certainly—of course—I quite understand," she said, humbly. And then she rose. "Well, I must be getting back to my friends, Vin, or they will think I have slipped over the side and been drowned." "But won’t you stay to dinner, aunt?" said he. "I wish you would!" "Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn’t," she answered with a sudden earnestness that became more intelligible to him afterwards. "I couldn’t run away from my hosts like that." Then she turned to Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter. "By the way," she said, "Lord Musselburgh is coming down to-morrow—merely for the day—and he will be on board the _Villeggiatura_. Would you all of you like to come along and have a look over the boat; or shall I send him to pay you a visit here?" It was Maisrie who replied—with perfect self-composure. "Our acquaintance with Lord Musselburgh is so very slight, Mrs. Ellison," said she, "that it would hardly be worth while making either proposal. I doubt whether he would even remember our names." Whereupon the young widow bade good-bye to Maisrie with a pretty little smile; the old gentleman bowed to her with much dignity; and then she took her seat in the stern of the gig, while her nephew put out the sculls. When they were well out of hearing, Mrs. Ellison said—with a curious look in her eyes of perplexity and half-frightened amusement— "Vin, who is that old man?" "Well, you saw, aunt," he made answer. "Ob, yes, I saw. I saw. But I am none the wiser. I could not make him out at all. Sometimes I thought he was a self-conceited old donkey, who was simply gabbling at random; and again he seemed really to believe what he was saying, about his connection with those Beatons and de Bethunes and the Scotch kings. But there’s something behind it all, Vin; I tell you there is; and I can’t make it out. There’s something mysterious about him—" "There’s nothing mysterious at all!" he exclaimed, impatiently.