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Miss Ogle during this Scottish trip was accompanied by her father, the venerable Dean of Winchester. The Dean, although in all things worthy of implicit confidence, was not next day informed of the intended expedition, in deference to public opinion, which, as Miss Ogle pointed out, regards a clergyman’s participation in a technical felony with disapproval.

Miss Ogle, therefore, radiant in a becoming gown of pink lute-string, left Edinburgh the following morning under cover of a subterfuge, and with Mr. Sheridan as her only escort. He was at pains to adorn this role with so many happy touches of courtesy and amiability that their confinement in the postchaise appeared to both of incredible brevity.

When they had reached Melrose another chaise was ordered to convey them to Bemerside; and pending its forthcoming Mr. Sheridan and Miss Ogle strolled among the famous ruins of Melrose Abbey. The parliamentarian had caused his hair to be exuberantly curled that morning, and figured to advantage in a plum-colored coat and a saffron waistcoat sprigged with forget-me-nots. He chatted entertainingly concerning the Second Pointed style of architecture; translated many of the epitaphs; and was abundant in interesting information as to Robert Bruce, and Michael Scott, and the rencounter of Chevy Chase.

“Oh, but observe,” said Mr. Sheridan, more lately, “our only covering is the dome of heaven. Yet in their time these aisles were populous, and here a score of generations have besought what earth does not afford–now where the banners of crusaders waved the ivy flutters, and there is no incense in this consecrated house except the breath of the wild rose.”

“The moral is an old one,” she returned. “Mummy is become merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.”

“You are a reader, madam?” he observed, with some surprise; and he continued: “Indeed, my thoughts were on another trail. I was considering that the demolishers of this place–those English armies, those followers of John Knox–were actuated by the highest and most laudable of motives. As a result we find the house of Heaven converted into a dustheap.”

“I believe you attempt an apologue,” she said, indignantly. “Upon my word, I think you would insinuate that philanthropy, when forced to manifest itself through embezzlement, is a less womanly employment than the darning of stockings!”

“Whom the cap fits—-” he answered, with a bow. “Indeed, incomparable Esther Jane, I had said nothing whatever touching hosiery; and it was equally remote from my intentions to set up as a milliner.”

They lunched at Bemerside, where Mr. Sheridan was cordially received by the steward, and a well-chosen repast was placed at their disposal.

“Fergus,” Mr. Sheridan observed, as they chatted over their dessert concerning famous gems–in which direction talk had been adroitly steered”–Fergus, since we are on the topic, I would like to show Miss Ogle the Honor of Eiran.”

The Honor of Eiran was accordingly produced from a blue velvet case, and was properly admired. Then, when the steward had been dismissed to fetch a rare liqueur, Mr. Sheridan laughed, and tossed and caught the jewel, as though he handled a cricket-ball. It was the size of a pigeon’s egg, and was set among eight gems of lesser magnitude; and in transit through the sunlight the trinket flashed and glittered with diabolical beauty. The parliamentarian placed three bits of sugar in the velvet case and handed the gem to his companion.

“The bulk is much the same,” he observed; “and whether the carbon be crystallized or no, is the responsibility of stratigraphic geology. Fergus, perhaps, must go to jail. That is unfortunate. But true philanthropy works toward the benefit of the greatest number possible; and this resplendent pebble will purchase you innumerable pounds of tea and a warehouseful of blankets.”

“But, Mr. Sheridan,” Miss Ogle cried, in horror, “to take this brooch would not be honest!”