"I'm sick of your chief!" said Christian. "A pretty chief without a penny to bless himself! A chief, and glad of the job of carrying a carpet-bag! You'll be calling him MY LORD, next!" "He may at least write BARONET after his name when he pleases," returned Mercy. "Why don't he then? A likely story!" "Because," answered Christina, "both his father and himself were ashamed of how the first baronet got his title. It had to do with the sale of a part of the property, and they counted the land the clan's as well as the chief's. They regarded it as an act of treachery to put the clan in the power of a stranger, and the chief looks on the title as a brand of shame." "I don't question the treachery," said Christian. "A highlander is treacherous." Christina had asked a friend in Glasgow to find out for her anything known among the lawyers concerning the Macruadhs, and what she had just recounted was a part of the information she had thereby received. Thenceforward silence covered the whole transaction. Sercombe neither returned the head, sent an apology, nor recognized the gift. That he had shot the stag was enough! But these things wrought shaping the idea of the brothers in the minds of the sisters, and they were beginning to feel a strange confidence in them, such as they had never had in men before. A curious little halo began to shimmer about the heads of the young men in the picture-gallery of the girls' fancy. Not the less, however, did they regard them as enthusiasts, unfitted to this world, incapable of self-protection, too good to live--in a word, unpractical! Because a man would live according to the laws of his being as well as of his body, obeying simple, imperative, essential human necessity, his fellows forsooth call him UNPRACTICAL! Of the idiotic delusions of the children of this world, that of being practical is one of the most ludicrous. Here is a translation, made by Ian, of one of Alister's Gaelic songs. THE SUN'S DAUGHTER. A bright drop of water In the gold tire Of a sun's daughter Was laughing to her sire; And from all the flowers about, That never toiled or spun, The soul of each looked out, Clear laughing to the sun. I saw them unfolding Their hearts every one! Every soul holding Within it the sun! But all the sun-mirrors Vanished anon; And their flowers, mere starers, Grew dry in the sun. "My soul is but water, Shining and gone! She is but the daughter," I said, "of the sun!" My soul sat her down In a deep-shaded gloom; Her glory was flown, Her earth was a tomb, Till night came and caught her, And then out she shone; And I knew her no daughter Of that shining sun-- Till night came down and taught her Of a glory yet unknown; And I knew my soul the daughter Of a sun behind the sun.