urphy say I was an Englishman?" he
whispered.

Hamish stifled a laugh. "It would likely jist be his natural Irish
villainy," he suggested solemnly.

But Scotty shook his head at even such a natural explanation. "No, it
would not be that, it would be--because--_the master said it_, Hamish!"

"The master?" Hamish's look of amusement changed to one of deep
interest. "Why? What would he be saying?"

The boy glanced around the room apprehensively, but the rest of the
family were still absorbed in Weaver Jimmie. "When we would be coming
into the school," he whispered hurriedly, "the master would be calling
all the new ones to the front. An' he says to me, 'What's your name,
child?' An I says, 'It's Scotty,--Scotty MacDonald.' An' he says,
'Hut tut, another MacDonald! Yon's no name. Whose bairn are ye?' An'
I told him I belonged to Grandaddy an' the boys; an' he says,--an' he
says, 'Oh tuts, I know you now. You're Big Malcolm's _English
grandson_!' He would be saying that, Hamish! An' he wrote a name for
me; see!" He had been growing more and more excited as the recital
proceeded, and at this point he jerked from his bosom a torn and
battered primer that had done duty in the few days that Hamish had
attended school. Under the scrawling marks that stood for Hamish's
name was written in a fine scholarly flourish, "Ralph Everett Stanwell."

"Humph!" Hamish gazed at the book, and a look of sadness crept into
his kind, brown eyes. He glanced across the room at his father.
Weaver Jimmie had just departed, and Callum was leaning over the back
of his chair laughing immoderately, while Rory was out in the middle of
the floor executing a lively step-dance accompanied by voice and fiddle
to the words, "Ha! Ha! the wooin' o't!"

"Look here, father," called Hamish, "do you see what the schoolmaster
would be writing in Scotty's book?"

Big Malcolm took the primer, adjusted his spectacles, and moved the
little book up and down before the candle to get the proper focus.
"Ralph Everett Stanwell," he read slowly. "What kind o' a name would
that be, whatever!" he cried, with a twinkle in his eye.

"It's got a fearsome kind of a sough to it," said Callum apprehensively.

"It will be an English name!" cried Scotty fiercely, "an' Peter Lauchie
would be saying it is jist no name at all!"

The young men burst into laughter, which served only to increase their
nephew's wrath. He sprang out upon the floor, his black eye