fficult to break. Italy's
charm has something physical in it; it is born of blue sky, sunlit
waves, soft atmosphere, orange sails and yellow moons, and appeals
more to the senses. In Scotland the climate certainly has naught to do
with it, but the imagination is somehow made captive. I am not
enthralled by the past of Italy or France, for instance."

"Of course you are not at the present moment," said Francesca,
"because you are enthralled by the past of Scotland, and even you
cannot be the slave of two pasts at the same time."

"I never was particularly enthralled by Italy's past," I argued with
exemplary patience, "but the romance of Scotland has a flavor all its
own. I do not quite know the secret of it."

"It's the kilts and the pipes," said Francesca.

"No, the history." (This from Salemina.)

"Or Sir Walter and the literature," suggested Mr. Macdonald.

"Or the songs and ballads," ventured Jean Dalziel.

"There!" I exclaimed triumphantly, "you see for yourselves you have
named avenue after avenue along which one's mind is led in charmed
subjection. Where can you find battles that kindle your fancy like
Falkirk and Flodden and Culloden and Bannockburn? Where a sovereign
that attracts, baffles, repels, allures, like Mary Queen of
Scots,--and where, tell me where, is there a Pretender like Bonnie
Prince Charlie? Think of the spirit in those old Scottish matrons who
could sing:--

'I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling-kame and spinning-wheel,

To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
A braid sword, durk, and white cockade.'"

"Yes," chimed in Salemina when I had finished quoting, "or that other
verse that goes,--

'I ance had sons, I now hae nane,
I bare them toiling sairlie;
But I would bear them a' again
To lose them a' for Charlie!'

Isn't the enthusiasm almost beyond belief at this distance of time?"
she went on; "and isn't it a curious fact, as Mr. Macdonald told me a
moment ago, that though the whole country was vocal with songs for the
lost cause and the fallen race, not one in favor of the victors ever
became popular?"

"Sympathy for the under dog, as Miss Monroe's countrywomen would say
picturesquely," remarked Mr. Macdonald.

"I don't see why all the vulgarisms in the dictionary should be
foisted on the American girl," retorted Francesca loftily, "unless,
indeed, it is a determined attempt to find spots upon the sun for fear
we shall worship it!"