said Lady Mabel. "Its name--its name is Mauropolis, the city of the
Moors. It lies on the border of Algarve, just like Berwick on the
border of Scotland, only Algarve is a beautiful and fertile country,
which poor Scotland is only to a Scot."

"It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest," growled Moodie in an
undertone. "Have you forgot, my lady, that you are yourself a Scot!"

"A Scot!" said she, deliberately, as if now first considering that
point. "My mother was an Englishwoman. So far, I am not a Scot."

"But your father! Your father, my lady!" Moodie angrily exclaimed. "He
is a true Scot, and knows the worth of old Scotland well."

"He does, indeed," said she; "and has always thought it an excellent
country--to come from; so he marched off at eighteen, and has seldom
been back there since."

"So we are on the borders of Africa!" exclaimed Moodie, speaking to
himself aloud.

"Why, do you not see Moodie, that the people grow darker, each day, as
we travel on?"

"The innkeeper at Evora is dark enough," said he, that truth flashing
on him; "but the farmer and his girls are browner still by many a
shade."

"You will think them fair," said Lady Mabel, "when you have traveled
far enough onward," and, leaving him confused and alarmed, she