"Mr. George Selwyn."

"George Selwyn! There's nae Scotch Selwyns that I ken o'. He'll be
Saxon altogether. Put him in the East room."

Crawford was not pleased at his son bringing any visitor. In the first
place, he had important plans to discuss and carry out, and he was
impatient of further delay. In the second, he was intensely jealous of
Helen. Every young man was a probable suitor, and he had quite decided
that Farquharson of Blair was the proper husband for her. Crawford and
Blair had stood shoulder to shoulder in every national quarrel, and a
marriage would put the two estates almost in a ring fence.

But he went the next day to meet the young men. He had not seen his
son for three years, and the lad was an object very near and dear to
his heart. He loved him tenderly as his son, he respected him highly
as the future heir of Crawford and Traquare. The Crawfords were a very
handsome race; he was anxious that this, their thirteenth
representative, should be worthy, even physically, of his ancestors.
He drew a long sigh of gratification as young Colin, with open hands,
came up to him. The future laird was a noble-looking fellow, a dark,
swarthy Highlandman, with glowing eyes, and a frame which promised in
a few years to fill up splendidly.

His companion was singularly unlike him. Old Crawford had judged
rightly. He was a pure Saxon, and showed it in his clear, fresh
complexion, pale brown hair, and clear, wide-open blue eyes. But there
was something about this young man which struck a deeper and wider
sympathy than race--he had a heart beating for all humanity. Crawford
looked at him physically only, and he decided at once, "There is no