"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark.

"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac--many of them. They have a heritage of
cleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and
_we_ were the losers when they left us."

"_We_? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously.

"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or rather
British. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Even
my tongue has lost its ancestral rights."

Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blessed
drop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father,
that you have it."

"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop.' I am really not English,
though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I am
kin to the 'blessed drop.'"

"And you drifted here--"

"Not exactly 'drifted,' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I came
for opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was another
reason--but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is your
constable friend again."

The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. _He_ at
least was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England.