write to me, but I have seen none of them for long, and I doubt I may never see them again. Also in my youth I have been in England."  And he sighed as at sorrowful recollection. 

 Then he showed the book in his hand.  "See," he said, "here is one of your English writings, the greatest book I have ever happened on."  It was a volume of Mr. Fielding. For a little he talked of books and poets. He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly, Dr. Smollet somewhat less, Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was clear that England had a monopoly of good writers, saving only my friend M. Rousseau, whom he valued, yet with reservations. Of the Italians he had no opinion. I instanced against him the plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shook his head, and grew moody. 

 "Know you Scotland?" he asked suddenly. 

 I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no great estimation for the country.  "It is too poor and jagged," I said, "for the taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave outlines."  He sighed.  "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly. When the sun shines at all he shines on the truest hearts in the world. I love its bleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty hills and the harsh sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds.  Poverty and courage go often together, and my Scots, if they are poor, are as untamable as their mountains." 

 "You know the land, sir?" I asked. 

 "I have seen it, and I have known many Scots. You will find them in Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their pockets. I have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied these poor people. They gave their all for the cause they followed." 

 Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history—those views which have made such sport for us often at Carteron. Stalwart Whig as I am, there was something in the tone of the old gentleman which made me feel a certain majesty in the lost cause. 

 "I am Whig in blood and Whig in principle," I said,—"but I have never denied that those Scots who followed the Chevalier were too good to waste on so trumpery a leader." 

 I had no sooner spoken the words than I felt that somehow I had been guilty of a betise. 

 "It may be so," said the Count.  "I did not bid you here, sir, to argue on politics, on which I am assured we should differ. But I will ask you one question. The King of England is a stout 

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