"There is a possibility of my becoming the President of the United States of America," was the rather contemptuous (and in point of fact, inaccurate) answer. "The courts have decided: you can’t go and disturb people who have been in possession for generations—at least, I should think not! As for the chapter of accidents: no doubt the estates might come to them for want of a more direct heir; such things certainly do happen; but how often? However, the old man is opinionated." "Not as much as he was," Vincent said. "Not on that point, at least. He does not talk as much about it as he used—so Maisrie says." "Oh, Maisrie? I was not sure. A pretty name. Well, I congratulate you; and when, in the ordinary course of things, it falls upon you to provide her with a home, I hope she will lead a more settled, a happier life, than I fancy she could have led in that wandering way." Vincent was silent. There were certain things about which he could not talk to this new acquaintance, even though he now seemed so well disposed towards old George Bethune and that solitary girl. There were matters about which he had given up questioning himself: mysteries that appeared incapable of explanation. In the meantime his hopes and speculations were narrowed down to this one point: would Maisrie’s grandfather—from whichsoever part of the world he might hail—suddenly make his appearance at this celebration to-night? For in that case she herself could not be far off. And wildly enthusiastic this gathering proved to be, even from the outset. Telegrams were flying this way and that (for in the old country the ceremonies had begun some hours previously); there was no distinction between members and friends; and as Scot encountered Scot, each vied with the other in recalling the phrases and intonation of their younger years. In the midst of this turmoil of arrival and joyous greeting, Vincent’s gaze was fixed on the door; at any moment there might appear there a proud-featured old man, white-haired, keen-eyed, of distinguished bearing—a striking figure—and not more picturesque than welcome! For would not Maisrie, later on in the evening, be still waiting up for him? And if, at the end of the proceedings, one were to walk home with the old man, and have a chance of saying five words to Maisrie herself, by way of good-night? No, he would not reproach her! He would only take her hand, and say, ’To-morrow—to-morrow, Maisrie, I am coming to scold you!’ Thin Scot, burly Scot, red-headed Scot, black-a-vised Scot, Lowlander and Highlander—all came trooping in, eager, talkative, delighted to meet friends and acquaintances; but there was no George Bethune. And when they had settled down in their places, and when dinner had begun, Hugh Anstruther, who was ’Croupier’ on this occasion, turned to his guest and said:—