“You are like all the rest of the Scotch I ever knew,” said Lady Clementina: “the Scotch are always preaching! I believe it is in their blood. You are a nation of parsons. Thank goodness! my morals go no farther than doing as I would be done by. I want to see creatures happy about me. For my own sake even, I would never cause pang to person--it gives me such a pang myself.” “That’s the way you are made, I suppose, Clementina,” returned Florimel. “For me, my clay must be coarser. I don’t mind a little pain myself, and I can’t break my heart for it when I see it-- except it be very bad--such as I should care about myself.--But here comes the tyrant.” Malcolm was pulling up his mare some hundred yards off. Even now she was unwilling to stop--but it was at last only from pure original objection to whatever was wanted of her. When she did stand she stood stock still, breathing hard. “I have actually succeeded in taking a little out of her at last, my lady,” said Malcolm as he dismounted. “Have you got a bit of sugar in your pocket, my lady? She would take it quite gently now.” Florimel had none, but Clementina had, for she always carried sugar for her horse. Malcolm held the demoness very watchfully, but she took the sugar from Florimel’s palm as neatly as an elephant, and let her stroke her nose over her wide red nostrils without showing the least of her usual inclination to punish a liberty with death. Then Malcolm rode her home, and she was at peace till the evening --when he took her out again. CHAPTER XL. MOONLIGHT.