McIntyre, with many nods of approbation. "I should certainly not let it
go out of the family."

"Well, I thought that I would tell you."

Robert picked up his Tam-o'-Shanter and strolled out to avoid the
discussion between his father and sister, which he saw was about to be
renewed. His artistic nature revolted at these petty and sordid
disputes, and he turned to the crisp air and the broad landscape to
soothe his ruffled feelings. Avarice had no place among his failings,
and his father's perpetual chatter about money inspired him with a
positive loathing and disgust for the subject.

Robert was lounging slowly along his favourite walk which curled over
the hill, with his mind turning from the Roman invasion to the
mysterious millionaire, when his eyes fell upon a tall, lean man
in front of him, who, with a pipe between his lips, was endeavouring to
light a match under cover of his cap. The man was clad in a rough
pea-jacket, and bore traces of smoke and grime upon his face and hands.
Yet there is a Freemasonry among smokers which overrides every social
difference, so Robert stopped and held out his case of fusees.

"A light?" said he.

"Thank you." The man picked out a fusee, struck it, and bent his head
to it. He had a pale, thin face, a short straggling beard, and a very
sharp and curving nose, with decision and character in the straight
thick eyebrows which almost met on either side of it. Clearly a
superior kind of workman, and possibly one of those who had been
employed in the construction of the new house. Here was a chance of