great fund of roguishness in such affairs as these.

"Ye neednae tell me," she said at last--"ye're gentry."

"Well," said Alan, softened a little (I believe against his will) by

this artless comment, "and suppose we were? Did ever you hear that

gentrice put money in folk's pockets?"

She sighed at this, as if she were herself some disinherited great lady.

"No," says she, "that's true indeed."

I was all this while chafing at the part I played, and sitting

tongue-tied between shame and merriment; but somehow at this I could

hold in no longer, and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. My

voice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take part in lies; but my

very embarrassment helped on the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my

husky voice to sickness and fatigue.

"Has he nae friends?" said she, in a tearful voice.

"That has he so!" cried Alan, "if we could but win to them!--friends and

rich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him--and

here he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a

beggarman."

"And why that?" says the lass.

"My dear," said Alan, "I cannae very safely say; but I'll tell ye what

I'll do instead," says he, "I'll whistle ye a bit tune." And with that

he leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle,

but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of "Charlie

is my darling."

"Wheesht," says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door.

"That's it," said Alan.

"And him so young!" cries the lass.

"He's old enough to----" and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part

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