And now they're a' scattered or deid." Her grave face wore the tenderness which comes from affectionate reminiscence.
"There was never sic a laddie as young Maister Quentin.

No' a week gaed by but he was in here, cryin', 'Phemie Morran, I've come till my tea!' Fine he likit my treacle scones, puir man.

There wasna ane in the countryside sae bauld a rider at the hunt, or sic a skeely fisher.
And he was clever at his books tae, a graund scholar, they said, and ettlin' at bein' what they ca' a dipplemat, But that' a' bye wi'." "Quentin Kennedy--the fellow in the Tins ?" Heritage asked.

"I saw him in Rome when he was with the Mission." "I dinna ken.

He was a brave sodger, but he wasna long fechtin' in France till he got a bullet in his breist.