"Not that I know of," was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.

Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word.

However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was going on between the others.

The dinner went off well--there were few enough for the conversation to be general. The young men began to strike out sparks of wit against each other--Flora put in a word or two--Ethel grew so much interested in the discussion, that her face lighted up, and she joined in it, as if it had been only between her father and brother--keen, clear, and droll. After that, she had her full share in the conversation, and enjoyed it so much that, when she left the dinner-table, she fetched her writing-case to sketch the colloquy for Margaret and her father.

Flora exclaimed at her for never allowing any one to think of rest. Meta said she should like to do the same, but it was impossible now; she did not know how she should ever settle down to write a letter. Ethel was soon interrupted--the gentlemen entered, and Mr. Ogilvie came to the window, where she was sitting, and began to tell her how much obliged to her he and his college were, for having insisted on her brother's sending in his poem. "Thanks are due, for our being spared an infliction next week," he said.

"Have you seen it?" she asked, and she was amused by the quick negative movement of his head.

"I read my friend's poems? But our lungs are prepared! Will you give me my cue--it is of no use to ask him when we are to deafen you. One generally knows the crack passages--something beginning with 'Oh, woman!' but it is well to be in readiness--if you would only forewarn me of the telling hits?"

"If they cannot tell themselves," said Ethel, smiling, "I don't think they deserve the name."

"Perhaps you think what does tell on the undergraduates, collectively, is not always what ought to tell on them."

"I don't know. I dare say the same would not be a favourite with them and with me."

"I should like to know which are your favourites. No doubt you have a copy here--made by yourself;" and he looked towards her paper-case.

There was the copy, and she took it out, peering to see whether Norman were looking.

"Let me see," he said, as she paused to open the MS., "he told me the thoughts were more yours than his own."

"Did he? That was not fair. One thought was an old one, long ago talked over between us; the rest is all his own."

Here Mr. Ogilvie took the paper, and Ethel saw his countenance show evident tokens of surprise and feeling.

"Yes," he said presently, "May goes deep--deeper than most men--though I doubt whether they will applaud this."

"I should like it better if they did not," said Ethel. "It is rather to be felt than shouted at."

"And I don't know how the world would go on if it were felt. Few men would do much without the hope of fame," said Norman Ogilvie.

"Is it the question what they would do?" said Ethel.

"So you call fame a low motive? I see where your brother's philosophy comes from."

"I do not call it a low motive--" Her pause was expressive.

"Nor allow that the Non omnis moriar of Horace has in it something divine?"

"For a heathen--yes."

"And pray, what would you have the moving spring?"

"Duty."

"Would not that end in 'Mine be a cot, beside the rill'?" said he, with an intonation of absurd sentiment.

"Well, and suppose an enemy came, would duty prompt not the Hay with the joke--or Winkelried on the spears?"

"Nay, why not--'It is my duty to take care of Lucy.'"

"Then Lucy ought to be broken on her own wheel."

"Not at all! It is Lucy's duty to keep her Colin from running into danger."

"I hope there are not many Lucies who would think so."

"I agree with you. Most would rather have Colin killed than disgraced."

"To be sure!" then, perceiving a knowing twinkle, as if he thought she had made an admission, she added, "but what is disgrace?"

"Some say it is misfortune," said Mr. Ogilvie.

"Is it not failure in duty?" said Ethel.

"Well!"

"Colin's first duty is to his king and country. If he fail in that, he is disgraced, in his own eyes, before Heaven and men. If he does it, there is a reward, which seems to me a better, more powerful motive for Lucy to set before him than 'My dear, I hope you will distinguish yourself,' when the fact is,

"'England has forty thousand men, We trust, as good as he.'

"'Victory or Westminster Abbey!' is a tolerable war-cry," said Mr.

Ogilvie.

"Not so good as 'England expects every man to do his duty.' That serves for those who cannot look to Westminster Abbey."

"Ah! you are an English woman!"

"Only by halves. I had rather have been the Master of Glenbracken at Flodden than King James, or"--for she grew rather ashamed of having been impelled to utter the personal allusion--"better to have been the Swinton or the Gordon at Homildon than all the rest put together."

"I always thought Swinton a pig-headed old fellow, and I have little doubt that my ancestor was a young ruffian," coolly answered the Master of Glenbracken.

"Why?" was all that Ethel could say in her indignation.

"It was the normal state of Scottish gentlemen," he answered.

"If I thought you were in earnest, I should say you did not deserve to be a Scot."

"And so you wish to make me out a fause Scot!"

"Ogilvie!" called Norman, "are you fighting Scottish and English battles with Ethel there? We want you to tell us which will be the best day for going to Blenheim."

The rest of the evening was spent in arranging the programme of their lionising, in which it appeared that the Scottish cousin intended to take his full share. Ethel was not sorry, for he interested her much, while provoking her. She was obliged to put out her full strength in answering him, and felt, at the same time, that he was not making any effort in using the arguments that puzzled her--she was in earnest, while he was at play; and, though there was something teasing in this, and she knew it partook of what her brothers called chaffing, it gave her that sense of power on his side, which is always attractive to women. With the knowledge that, through Norman, she had of his real character, she understood that half, at least, of what he said was jest; and the other half was enough in earnest to make it exciting to argue with him.