is of no consequence, but just for habit's sake, would you oblige me
by calling Gilbert by his own name--Sir Gilbert, please. I wish him
to get used to it."

"Yer wull be't, mem.--Weel, as I was sayin', Sir Gibbie--Sir
Gilbert, that is, mem--an mysel', we hae kenned Miss Galbraith this
lang time, bein' o' the laird's ain fowk, as I may say."

"Will you take a seat beside her, then," said Mrs. Sclater, and
rising, herself placed a chair for him near Ginevra, wondering how
any Scotch laird, the father of such a little lady as she, could
have allowed her such an acquaintance.

To most of the company he must have looked very queer. Gibbie,
indeed, was the only one who saw the real Donal. Miss Kimble and
her pupils stared at the distorted reflexion of him in the
spoon-bowl of their own elongated narrowness; Mrs. Sclater saw the
possible gentleman through the loop-hole of a compliment he had paid
her; and Mr. Sclater beheld only the minimum which the reversed
telescope of his own enlarged importance, he having himself come of
sufficiently humble origin, made of him; while Ginevra looked up to
him more as one who marvelled at the grandly unintelligible, than
one who understood the relations and proportions of what she beheld.
Nor was it possible she could help feeling that he was a more
harmonious object to the eye both of body and mind when dressed in
his corduroys and blue bonnet, walking the green fields, with cattle
about him, his club under his arm, and a book in his hand. So seen,
his natural dignity was evident; now he looked undeniably odd. A
poet needs a fine house rather than a fine dress to set him off, and
Mrs. Sclater's drawing-room was neither large nor beautiful enough
to frame this one, especially with his Sunday clothes to get the
better of. To the school ladies, mistress and pupils, he was simply
a clodhopper, and from their report became a treasure of
poverty-stricken amusement to the school. Often did Ginevra's cheek
burn with indignation at the small insolences of her fellow-pupils.
At first she attempted to make them understand something of what
Donal really was, but finding them unworthy of the confidence, was
driven to betake herself to such a silence as put a stop to their
offensive remarks in her presence.

"I thank ye, mem," said Donal, as he took the chair; "ye're verra
condescendin'." Then turning to Ginevra, and trying to cross one
knee over the other, but failing from the tightness