row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden
interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in
Larcher.

"Yes, sir," said the old man, with pride and affection, "them books is my
chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and
again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three
that's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!--well, I've tried a good
many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of
novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people
in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would
blow 'em away. But look at the _body_ to Scott's people! They're all the
way round, and clear through, his characters are.--Of course, I'm no
literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion." Mr. Bud's
manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its
bold enthusiasm.

"Your small opinion is quite right," said Davenport. "There's no doubt
about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters." He took
one of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on
with brightened eyes. "Andrew Fairservice--there's a character. 'Gude
e'en--gude e'en t' ye'--how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a
wild slip, that'--there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant
in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the
hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as
fast as he can."

"Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol
Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him." The old man
grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another