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"That's just like Edith," observed Gus. "Hasn't 'formed an opinion,' indeed! As if any young lady could meet such a good-looking fellow as Fred without forming an opinion about him. He reminds me wonderfully of the old woman in the song." And Gus drawled, in a sing-song tone:

"There was an old woman—and what do you think?

She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink—

Victuals and drink was the whole of her diet—

And yet this old woman could never be quiet."

If Gus had seen the fiery flash of Fred's eye, at that moment, he might have hesitated a little about the comparison.

"I dinna see how Maister Stanley's like that auld wumman," said the doctor, solemnly.

"Why, my dear doctor, it's as clear as mud," said Gus. "Fred, like the old lady in the rhyme, 'never is quiet.' It's a perfect martyrdom to a serious person like myself, to be with one as restless as an uneasy conscience, and as fiery as one of your own Scotch Douglases."

Fred had not waited to hear this explanation; but wrapping himself more closely in his cloak, resumed his solitary march up and down—the loud mirth and laughter from the cabin, amid which at times he could recognize the silvery voice of Edith—giving added bitterness to his thoughts. Poor Fred! Like the country swain in love, he felt "hot and dry like, with a pain in his side like;" and like every other young gentleman when he first falls in love, tormenting himself with a thousand imaginary evils—until, as Gus phrased it, there was "no standing him."