"Oh, Maisrie, don’t make a fuss about nothing!" he protested. "I know whether it is nothing or not," said she, proudly. "And—and perhaps if you had lived as we have lived—wandering from place to place—you would set more store by an act of friendship. Friends are little to you—you have too many of them—" "Oh, Maisrie, don’t talk like that!" he said. "You make me ashamed. What have I done?—nothing! I wish there was some real thing I could do to prove my friendship for your grandfather and yourself—then you might see—" "Haven’t you proved it every day, every hour almost, since ever we have known you?" she said, in rather a low voice. "Ah, well, perhaps there may come a chance—" said he; and then he stopped short; for here was old George Bethune, with half-a-dozen volumes under his arm, and himself all eagerness and garrulity about his new undertaking. At the little dinner that evening in the restaurant, there was quite an unusual animation, and that not solely because this was the ninth of November, and they were proposing to go out later on and look at the illuminations in the principal thoroughfares. Vincent thought he had never seen Maisrie Bethune appear so light-hearted and happy; and she was particularly kind to him; when she regarded him, there still seemed to be a mild gratitude shining in the clear and eloquent deeps of her eyes. Gratitude for what!—he asked himself, with a touch of scorn. It was but an ordinary act of acquaintanceship: why should this beautiful, sensitive, proud-spirited creature have to debase herself to thank him for such a trifle? He felt ashamed of himself. It was earning gratitude by false pretences. The very kindness shining there in her eyes was a sort of reproach: what had he done to deserve it? Ah, if she only knew what he was ready to do—when occasion offered! And never before had he seen Maisrie so bravely confident about any of her grandfather’s literary projects. "You see, Vincent," she said, as if he needed any convincing, when she was satisfied! "in the end it will make a far more interesting book than the Scotch-American one; and in the meantime there will be the series of articles appearing from week to week, to attract attention to the subject. And then, although grandfather says I take a low and mercenary view of literature, all the same I am glad he is to be well-paid for the articles; and there are to be as many as he likes; and when they are completed, then comes the publication of the book, which should be as interesting to Mr. Carmichael, or Lord Musselburgh, or anyone, as the Scotch-American volume. And grandfather is going to begin at once; and I am asking him whether I cannot be of any use to him, in the humblest way. A glossary, grandfather; you must have a glossary of the Scotch words: couldn’t I compile that for you?"