It was a merry enough dinner-party: perhaps it was the consciousness that the _White Dove_ was still bowling along that brightened up our spirits, and made the Laird of Denny-mains more particularly loquacious. The number of good ones that he told us was quite remarkable—until his laughter might have been heard through the whole ship. And to whom now did he devote the narration of those merry anecdotes—to whom but Miss Mary Avon, who was his ready chorus on all occasions, and who entered with a greater zest than any one into the humours of them. Had she been studying the Lowland dialect, then, that she understood and laughed so lightly and joyously at stories about a thousand years of age? "Oh, ay," the Laird was saying patronisingly to her, "I see ye can enter into the peculiar humour of our Scotch stories; it is not every English person that can do that. And ye understand the language fine.... Well," he added, with an air of modest apology, "perhaps I do not give the pronunciation as broad as I might. I have got out of the way of talking the provincial Scotch since I was a boy—indeed, ah’m generally taken for an Englishman maself—but I do my best to give ye the speerit of it." "Oh, I am sure your imitation of the provincial Scotch is most excellent—most excellent—and it adds so much to the humour of the stories," says this disgraceful young hypocrite. "Oh, ay, oh, ay," says the Laird, greatly delighted. "I will admit that some o’ the stories would not have so much humour but for the language. But when ye have both! Did ye ever hear of the laddie who was called in to his porridge by his mother?" We perceived by the twinkle in the Laird’s eyes that a real good one was coming. He looked round to see that we were listening, but it was Mary Avon whom he addressed. "A grumbling bit laddie—a philosopher, too," said he. "His mother thought he would come in the quicker if he knew there was a fly in the milk. ’_Johnny_,’ she cried out, ’_Johnny, come in to your parritch; there’s a flee in the milk._’ ’_It’ll no droon,_’ says he. ’_What!_’ she says, ’_grumblin again? Do ye think there’s no enough milk?’ ’Plenty for the parritch_,’ says he—_kee! kee! kee!_—sharp, eh, wasn’t eh?—’_Plenty for the parritch_,’ says he—ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!"—and the Laird slapped his thigh, and chuckled to himself. "Oh, ay, Miss Mary," he added, approvingly, "I see you are beginning to understand the Scotch humour fine."