"Colin is coming home. I have just had a letter from him. He has taken
high honors in Glasgow. We'll both be proud of Colin, father."

"What has he done?"

"He has written a prize poem in Latin and Greek, and he is second in
mathematics."

"Latin and Greek! Poor ghostlike languages that hae put off flesh and
blood lang syne. Poetry! Warse than nonsense! David and Solomon hae
gien us such sacred poetry as is good and necessary; and for sinfu'
love verses and such vanities, if Scotland must hae them, Robert Burns
is mair than enough. As to mathematics, there's naething against them.
A study that is founded on figures is to be depended upon; it has nae
flights and fancies. You ken what you are doing wi' figures. When is
this clever fellow to be here?"

"He is coming by the afternoon packet to-morrow. We must send the
carriage to meet it, for Colin is bringing a stranger with him. I came
to ask you if I must have the best guest-room made ready."

"Wha for?"

"He is an English gentleman, from London, father."

"And you would put an Englishman in the room where the twa last
Stuarts slept? I'll not hear tell o' it. I'm not the man to lift a
quarrel my fathers dropped, but I'll hae no English body in Prince
Charlie's room. Mind that, noo! What is the man's name?"