I meant to tell you a lie, and I've told you the truth." "Laddie," said Christie, half admiringly, half reproachfully, "ye gar the tear come in my een.

Hech! look at yon lassie! how could you think t'eat plums through siccan a bonny story ?" "Hets," answered Jean, who had, in fact, cleared the plate, "I aye listen best when my ain mooth's stappit." "But see, now," pondered Christie, "twa words fra a king--thir titles are just breeth." "Of course," was the answer.

"All titles are.

What is popularity?
ask Aristides and Lamartine--the breath of a mob--smells of its source--and is gone before the sun can set on it.

Now the royal breath does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age." The story had warmed our marble acquaintance.