"Bless me! If a man in public life were to heed everything that’s said about him," observes the Laird, with a fine air of unconcern, "what would become of his time? No, no; that is not the principle on which a public man should found his life. Do your best for your fellow-creatures, and let the squabblers say what they like. As ah say, the poor wretches have to earn their living." Here Mary Avon appeared, somewhat pale and tired-looking; and the Laird instantly went to condole with her, and to get her a deck chair, and what not. At the same moment, too, our young Doctor came along—perhaps with a brave desire to put an end to her embarrassment at once—and shook hands with her, and said "Good morning; I hope your headache is better." Her hand was trembling as it fell away from his; and her " Yes, thank you," was almost inaudible. Then she sate down, and the Laird resumed his discourse. "I was once taken," said he, "by a fellow commissioner of mine to a sort of singing place, or music hall, in Glasgow." "What?" "They wanted to have some such place in Strathgovan," continued the Laird, paying no heed; "and I was asked to go and see what sort of entertainment was provided in such places. It was a sorrowful sight, ma’am—a sorrowful sight; the wretched craytures on the stage laughing at their own songs, and the people not laughing at all, but given over to tobacco smoking, and whisky, and talking amongst themselves. No glint of humour—stupid, senseless stuff. But there was one young man sung a song that had a better sound in it—I cannot remember the words—but I sometimes think there was common sense in them: it was about minding your own business, and doing your own work, and letting fools say or think of ye what they please. Aye, I think there was something in that young man; though I doubt, by the look of his eyes, but he was a drinker." He turned to Mary Avon, who had been content to be a mute and unobserved listener. "Well, Miss Mary," said he, brightly, "and the headache is going? And are ye looking forward to getting letters and newspapers when we get back to the world? There is a post-office at that village of Clachan, John?" "Oh, aye, sir!" said John; "there will be a post-office." The Laird looked up at him reproachfully. "But why cannot ye learn the English pronunciation, man? What’s the necessity for ye to say _posht offus_? Cannot ye pronounce the plain English—_post oafficc_?" "I am not very good at the English, sir," said Captain John, with a grin. "Ye’ll never learn younger." Then he went to Mary Avon, and suggested that a walk up and down the deck might do her headache good; and when she rose he put her hand on his arm. "Now," said he, as they started off, "I do not like headaches in young people; they are not natural. And ye may think I am very inqueesitive; but it is the privilege of old men to be talkative and inqueesitive—and I am going to ask you a question."