"That’s the Johnny, ma’am," he cried, in explanation, "that’s the Johnny Guthrie I was telling ye about—the poor, yaumering, pernickity, querulous crayture! ’Mr. J. Guthrie begged to say he could not join in these general felicitations. They were making a great deal of noise about nothing. The fire was no fire at all; a servant-girl could have put it out with a pail. He had come from Glasgow by the eleven o’clock ’bus, and there was then not a trace of a fire to be seen. The real damage done to the property was not done by the fire, but by the dirty water drawn by the fire brigade from the Coulter-burn, which dirty water had entirely destroyed Mrs. MacInnes’s best bedroom furniture." The Laird flourished the newspaper, and laughed aloud in his joy; the mere reading of the extract had so thoroughly discomfited his enemy. "Did ye ever hear the like o’ that body?" he cried. "A snarlin’, quarlin’, gruntin’, growlin’, fashious crayture! He thinks there could not be any fire, just because he was not in time to see it. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, I’m just fair ashamed o’ ye." But at this point the Laird seemed to become aware that he had given way too much to his love of pure and pithy English. He immediately said, in a more formal manner— "I am glad to perceive, ma’am, that the meeting paid no heed to these strictures, but went on to consider whether the insurance companies should not share the expense of maintaining the fire brigade. That was most proper—most judeecious. I’m thinking that after dinner I could not do better than express my views upon that subject, in a letter addressed to the Provost. It would be in time to be read at the monthly sederunt." "Come along, then, Mary, and let us get through our letters," said his hostess, turning away with a sigh from the dilapidated rose-garden. As she passed the piano, she opened it. "How strange it will sound!" she said. She played a few bars of Mary Avon’s favourite song; somehow the chords seemed singularly rich and full and beautiful after our long listening to the monotonous rush of the sea. Then she put her hand within the girl’s arm and gently led her away, and said to her as they passed through the hall "’Oh, little did my mither think When first she cradled me’ that ever I should have come back to such a picture of desolation. But we must put a brave face on it. If the autumn kills the garden, it glorifies the hills. You will want all your colour-tubes when we show you Loch Hourn." "That was the place the Doctor was anxious to veesit," said the Laird, who was immediately behind them. "Ay. Oh, yes, we will show Miss Mary Loch Hourn; she will get some material for sketches there, depend on’t. Just the finest loch in the whole of the Highlands. When I can get Tom Galbraith first of all persuaded to see Bunessan——"