think for ourselves.

But Saunders would come to his distressed master's assistance. He
furtively conveyed to him a plump book--this was Saunders's manual of
faith; the author was Mr. Burke, not Edmund.

Lord Ipsden ran hastily over the page, closed the book, and said, "Here
is the story.

"Five hundred years ago--"

"Listen, Jean," said Christie; "we're gaun to get a boeny story. 'Five
hundre' years ago,'" added she, with interest and awe.

"Was a great battle," resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as one
larking with history, "between a king of England and his rebels. He was
in the thick of the fight--"

"That's the king, Jean, he was in the thick o't."

"My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but the next
moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands
full with three assailants."

"Eh! that's no fair," said Christie, "as sure as deeth."

"My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one
of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow."

"Weel done! weel done!"