"One thing is pretty certain," said Mr. Anstruther. "If George Bethune is in this city, he will be heard of to-morrow evening." "To-morrow evening?" Vincent repeated, vaguely. "The twenty-fifth!" exclaimed the Editor, with an astonished stare. And yet the young man seemed none the wiser. "It is evident you are no Scotchman," Mr. Anstruther said at length, and with good humour. "You don’t remember that ’a blast o’ Janwar win’ blew hansel in on Robin’? The twenty-fifth of January—the birthday of Robert Burns!" "Oh, yes—oh, certainly," said Vincent, with guilty haste. "There will be a rare gathering of the clans to-morrow night," the Editor continued; "and if George Bethune is on this side the water, he’ll either show up himself or somebody will have heard of him." "I think he must be over here," Vincent said. "At first I imagined he might have gone to Scotland: he was thinking of a topographical and antiquarian book on the various places mentioned in the Scotch songs—and he had often spoken of making a pilgrimage through the country for that purpose. So I went down to Scotland for a few days, but I could hear nothing of him." "What do you say—that you have been quite recently in Scotland?" Mr. Anstruther said, with a sudden accession of interest. "About three weeks ago," was the answer. "Well, well, well!" the Editor exclaimed, and he regarded the young man with quite a kindly curiosity. "Do ye tell me that! In Scotland—not more than three weeks since! And whereabouts—whereabouts?" "I was in Edinburgh most of the time," Vincent said. "In Edinburgh?—did ye see the Corstorphine Hills?" was the next eager question; and the man’s eyes were no longer coldly scrutinising, but full of a lively interest and friendliness. "Ay, the Corstorphine Hills: ye would see them if ye went up to the top of Nelson’s Monument, and looked away across the town—away along Princes Street—that wonderful view!—wonderful!—when I think of it, I seem to see it all a silver-white—and Scott’s Monument towering high in the middle, like some splendid fountain turned to stone. Ay, ay, and ye were walking along Princes Street not more than three weeks ago; and I suppose ye were thinking of old Christopher, and the Ettrick Shepherd, and Sir Walter, and Jeffrey, and the rest of them? Dear me, it’s a kind of strange thing! Did ye go out to Holyrood? Did ye climb up Arthur’s Seat? Did ye see Portobello, and Inch Keith, and the Berwick Law——" "’The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,’" Vincent quoted, with a smile. The other’s eyes flashed recognition; and he laughed aloud. "Ay, ay, that was a great favourite with the old man. Many’s the time he has announced himself coming up these very stairs with that." "Did Maisrie ever come with him?" Vincent asked—with his heart going a bit quicker.