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"Of what shire, pr'ythee?" asked Marian.

Macfarren had not practiced law at the New York bar for twenty years without being able to extricate himself from a tight place. He really could not recall for the moment what county in Scotland held Abbotsford, but he replied, at a venture:

"In Perthshire. Have you never heard of Melrose Abbey, near Jedburgh?"

Marian shook her head and glanced at Macfarren with something like scorn in her clear eyes.

"I belike me not of the Scotch. It is a false and treacherous race, they say. They come to England and tell us they have noble castles and stately manor-houses in Scotland, and, forsooth, they are nothing more than hovels and swineherds' cottages. The Abbotsford of which Sir Walter told thee is like enough a huntsman's lodge."

"Indeed it is not," said Macfarren, earnestly. "It is a magnificent baronial hall. I have been there myself, and," he added, feeling obliged to say something in defense of Sir Walter Scott's character, "Sir Walter is a—er—a most respectable person."