ve her," and here he
raised his hat with something of a theater's gallantry. "It is Mistress
Stair, of course, of whom I speak."

Dandy Carmichael was on his feet in a minute.

"It is but fair to you, your Grace of Borthwicke, to tell you that
Mistress Nancy Stair is already bespoken."

"Indeed?" said the duke. "And whom shall I believe? The lady herself
denies it."

"She has promised that if she sees none within the year whom she likes
better she will be my wife."

"Ah," returned the duke, and again there was a smile. "Am I to gather,
then, that Mr. Carmichael considers himself so attractive that he
believes it impossible the lady should find, in a whole year, one whom
she could prefer?"

There was in the tone that which no man of spirit could have borne,
least of all Danvers Carmichael, who knew that for two months the path
of the duke had been leading up to this, and there was no hesitation in
him. He held several of the unplayed cards in his hand and he struck
the duke across the mouth with them.

"Since you are wanting a quarrel, I'll give you cause for one," he
said, and I joyed to hear him say it.

Borthwicke took his kerchief from his pocket and drew it across his
lips.

"My friends will wait upon you," he said.

"They will be welcomed," Danvers answered, and as the words were spoken
I saw Nancy come from the porch door holding a book in her hand, and I
rode hastily to the main entrance rather than to place further present
embarrassment upon them by having them fear that I had overheard the
quarrel between them.

If the duke showed any change whatever in his manner of greeting me it
was to appear a bit more frank and careless than ordinary, his voice a
trifle smoother, and his countenance more open than I had ever noted it
before. He asked me to ride to town with him to look at some old prints
which he was for purchasing, and, as we rode off together, turned
toward me as a schoolboy might have done, inquiring:

"Did you ever have an old song go over and over in your head, without
rhyme or reason, Lord Stair?"

"Many's the time," I answered.

"This morning," he continued, "I woke with one of these attacks, which
are o'er frequent with me, and a bit of a rhyme of one of my father's
serving-men has been ranting through my brain all the day," and here he
broke forth and sang:

"I hae been a devil the most of life,
O, but the rue grows bonny wi' thyme,
But I ne'er was in hell till