"I am sure I cannot say," she made answer. "Grandfather could tell you; he is always interested in such things." "And Balloray," he went on, "I could find no mention of Balloray; but of course there must be such a place?" "I wish there was not," she said, sadly. "It is the one bitter thing in my grandfather’s life. I wish there never had been any such place. But I have noticed a change in him of late. He does not complain now as he used to complain; he is more resigned; indeed, he seldom talks of it. And when I say complain, that is hardly the word. Don’t you think he bears his lot with great fortitude? I am sure it is more on my account than his own that he ever thinks of the estate that was lost. And I am sure he is happier with his books than with all the land and money that could be given to him. He seems to fancy that those old songs and ballads belong to him; they are his property; he is happier with them than with a big estate and riches." "I could not find Balloray in the index to the Guide," Vincent resumed, "but of course there must be such a place—there is the ballad your grandfather is so fond of—’The bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray.’" She looked up suddenly, with some distress in her face. "Vincent, don’t you understand? Don’t you understand that grandfather is easily taken with a name—with the sound of it—and sometimes he confuses one with another? That ballad is not about Balloray; it is about Binnorie; it is ’The bonnie mill-dams o’ Binnorie.’ Grandfather forgets at times; and he is used to Balloray; and that has got into his head in connection with the ballad. I thought perhaps you knew." "Oh, no," said he, lightly, for he did not attach any great importance to this chance confusion. "The two words are not unlike; I quite see how one might take the place of the other. Of course you will make sure that he puts in the right name when he comes to publish the volume." And so they walked up and down the almost deserted pier, in the bright sunlight, looking out on the lapping green waters, or up to the terraced yellow houses above the tall cliffs. Sometimes, of course, the four of them came together; and more than once the horsey-looking young gentleman insidiously tried to detach Maisrie from her chosen companion—and tried in vain. At last, when it became about time for them to be going their several ways home, he made a bold stroke. "Come, Mr. Bethune," said he, as they were successively passing through the turnstile, "I want you and Miss Bethune to take pity on a poor solitary bachelor, and come along and have a bit of lunch with me at the Old Ship. It will be a little change for you, won’t it?—and we can have a private room if you prefer that." The old gentleman seemed inclined to close with this offer; but he glanced towards Maisrie for her acquiescence first.