“That wad tak a heap o’ thinkin’,” returned the fisherman; “but ae thing seems aboot plain: ye ha’e no richt to lat yer sister gang exposed to temptations ye cud haud frae her. That’s no, as ye promised, to be kin’ till her. I canna believe that’s hoo yer father expeckit o’ ye. I ken weel ’at fowk in his poseetion ha’ena the preevileeges o’ the like o’ hiz--they ha’ena the win, an’ the watter, an’ whiles a lee shore to gar them know they are but men, an’ sen’ them rattlin’ at the wicket of h’aven; but still I dinna think, by yer ain accoont, specially noo ’at I houp he’s forgi’en an’ latten in--God grant it!--I div _not_ think he wad like my leddy Florimel to be oon’er the influences o’ sic a ane as that Leddy Bellair. Ye maun gang till her. Ye ha’e nae ch’ice, my lord.” “But what am I to do, whan I div gang?” “That’s what ye hev to gang an’ see.” “An’ that’s what I ha’e been tellin’ mysel’, an’ what Miss Horn’s been tellin’ me tu. But it’s a gran’ thing to get yer ain thouchts corroborat. Ye see I’m feart for wrangin’ her for pride, and bringin’ her doon to set mysel’ up.” “My lord,” said Blue Peter, solemnly, “ye ken the life o’ puir fisher-fowk; ye ken hoo it micht be lichtened, sae lang as it laists, an’ mony a hole steikit ’at the cauld deith creeps in at the noo: coont ye them naething, my lord? Coont ye the wull o’ Providence, ’at sets ye ower them, naething? What for could the Lord ha’e gie ye sic an upbringin’ as no markis’s son ever hed afore ye, or maybe ever wull ha’e efter ye, gien it bena ’at ye sud tak them in han’ to du yer pairt by them? Gien ye forsak them noo, ye’ll be forgettin’ him ’at made them an’ you, an’ the sea, an’ the herrin’ to be taen intill ’t. Gien ye forget them, there’s nae houp for them, but the same deith ’ill keep on swallowin’ at them upo’ sea an’ shore.” “Ye speyk the trowth as I ha’e spoken ’t till mysel’, Peter. Noo, hearken: will ye sail wi’ me the nicht for Lon’on toon?” The fisherman was silent a moment--then answered, “I wull, my lord; but I maun tell my wife.” “Rin, an’ fess her here than, for I’m fleyed at yer sister, honest wuman, an’ little Phemy. It wad blaud a’ thing gien I was hurried to du something afore I kenned what.” “I s’ ha’e her oot in a meenute,” said Joseph, and scrambled up the cliff. CHAPTER VIII. VOYAGE TO LONDON.