he old women alone waited on his going; shy girls courtesied or
applauded at the corners. For them his horse caracoled on Stonefield's
causeway, his shoulders straightened, and his bonnet rose. "There
you are!" said he, "still the temptation and the despair of a decent
bachelor's life. I'll marry every one of you that has not a man when I
come home."

"And when may that be?" cried a little, bold, lair one, with a laughing
look at him from under the blowing locks that escaped the snood on her
hair.

"When may it be?" he repeated. "Say 'Come home, Barbreck,' in every one
of your evening prayers, and heaven, for the sake of so sweet a face,
may send me home the sooner with my fortune."

Master Gordon, passing, heard the speech. "Do your own praying,
Barbreck------"

"John," said my hero. "John, this time, to you."

"John be it," said the cleric, smiling warmly. "I like you, truly, and I
wish you well."

M'Iver stooped and took the proffered hand. "Master Gordon," he said, "I
would sooner be liked and loved than only admired; that's, perhaps, the
secret of my life."

It was not the fishing season, but the street thronged with fishers from
Kenmore and Cairndhu and Kilcatrine and the bays of lower Cowal. Their
tall figures jostled in the causeway, their white teeth gleamed in their
friendliness, and they met this companion of numerous days and nights,
this gentleman of good-humour and even temper, with cries as in a
schoolboy's playground. They clustered round the horse and seized upon
the trappings. Then John Splendid's play-acting came to its conclusion,
as it was ever bound to do when his innermost man was touched. He forgot
the carriage of his shoulders; indifferent to the disposition of his
reins, he reached and wrung a hundred hands, crying back memory for
memory, jest for jest, and always the hope for future meetings.

"O scamps! scamps!" said he, "fishing the silly prey of ditches when
you might be with me upon the ocean and capturing the towns. I'll never
drink a glass of Rhenish, but I'll mind of you and sorrow for your sour
ales and bitter _aqua!_"

"Will it be long?" said they--true Gaels, ever anxious to know the lease
of pleasure or of grief.

"Long or short," said he, with absent hands in his horse's mane, "will
lie with Fate, and she, my lads, is a dour jade with a secret It'll be
long if ye mind of me, and unco short if ye forget me till I return."

I went up and said farewell. I but shook his h