Blanche. "Be so good as to get me some
from the spring."

She pointed to the bubbling rivulet at the farther end of the glade.

Bishopriggs looked unaffectedly shocked.

"Lord's sake, miss," he exclaimed "d'ye relly mean to offend yer stomach
wi' cauld water--when there's wine to be had for the asking!"

Blanche gave him a look. Slowness of perception was not on the list of
the failings of Bishopriggs. He took up a tumbler, winked with his
one available eye, and led the way to the rivulet. There was nothing
remarkable in the spectacle of a young lady who wanted a glass of
spring-water, or of a waiter who was getting it for her. Nobody was
surprised; and (with the band playing) nobody could by any chance
overhear what might be said at the spring-side.

"Do you remember me at the inn on the night of the storm?" asked
Blanche.

Mr. Bishopriggs had his reasons (carefully inclosed in his pocketbook)
for not being too ready to commit himself with Blanche at starting.

"I'm no' saying I canna remember ye, miss. Whar's the man would mak' sic
an answer as that to a bonny young leddy like you?"

By way of assisting his memory Blanche took out her purse. Bishopriggs
became absorbed in the scenery. He looked at the running water with the
eye of a man who thoroughly distrusted it, viewed as a beverage.

"There ye go," he said, addressing himself to the rivulet, "bubblin' to
yer ain annihilation in the loch yonder! It's little I know that's gude
aboot ye, in yer unconvairted state. Ye're a type o' human life, they
say. I tak' up my testimony against _that._ Ye're a type o' naething
at all till ye're heated wi' fire, and sweetened wi' sugar, and
strengthened wi' whusky; and then ye're a type o' toddy--and human life
(I grant it) has got something to say to ye in that capacity!"

"I have heard more about you, since I was at the inn," proceeded
Blanche, "than you may suppose." (She opened her purse: Mr. Bishopriggs
became the picture of attention.) "You were very, very kind to a lady
who was staying at Craig Fernie," she went on, earnestly. "I know that
you have lost your place at the inn, because you gave all your attention
to that lady. She is my dearest friend, Mr. Bishopriggs. I want to thank
you. I do thank you. Please accept what I have got here?"

All the girl's heart was in her eyes and in her voice as she emptied her
purse into the gouty (and greedy) old hand of Bishopriggs.

A young lady with a well-filled purse