“Well, my little girl; but a gentleman would not have done it. He would not have taken an advantage of a man he did not know. Friends may do that kind of thing, but not a stranger, my little Peggy.” “Oh, papa!” cried Margaret, the tears coming to her eyes, “why will you always blame other people for what was my fault? He did not want to do it (this was a fib, but perhaps a pardonable one); it was me that wanted it, papa; and when I said to him, ‘Oh, Mr. Glen, I have not got any picture of papa, not even a poor photograph--oh, draw me a picture of papa!’ he did it; but it was me that wanted it--and how could he refuse me?” “He would have been a brute if he had,” said the old man, melted; “but still it is true, my Peggy, your stranger should not have done that, without my knowledge, the first time he ever saw me.” “As if he had not known you all his life!” cried Margaret. “He knew you as well as I did when we were little--when you used to walk about. He wondered why you never walked about now; he asked me if you were ill, and I told him you were not ill, only--” “Only what, my little girl?--old and useless?” said Sir Ludovic, with a pathetic undertone of protest, yet acquiescence, a wistful desire to be contradicted in his faltering voice. “No--oh, I beg your pardon, papa. I did not mean to be so--impudent. It sounds so, but I did not mean it. I said you were only--lazy.” Sir Ludovic laughed. What relief was in the laugh! what ease from the pang which had struck him! His little girl, at least, did not see the true state of affairs, and why should he not be able to look at this, at least, through her eyes? “Perhaps there is some truth in it,” he said. “You were always saucy, my Peggy. If I were not so lazy, but moved about a little more, it might be better for me. What have you to say against that?” he cried, turning round half angrily to old John, who had given a significant “Humph!” behind his chair. “Oh, just nothing at all, Sir Ludovic. I wasna speaking. But exercise is good for man and beast--when they’re no ower auld or ower frail.” Sir Ludovic laughed again, though less pleasantly. “I will defy the cleverest talker in the world,” he cried, “old John, you old grumbler, to make anything of you.” “I just aye say what I think, Sir Ludovic,” said the old man, without a smile; but he chuckled when he went down-stairs and recounted the incident to Bell. “Would he hev me say he was as souple as a laud o’ twenty?” said old John. “Ye auld grumbler, as Sir Ludovic weel says. What for could you no say a pleasant word to pleasure the maister?” cried the more sympathetic Bell. CHAPTER XIII.