“Who, who?” ejaculated Wilkinson; “do not tell me that the captain was mistaken, that they are really here.”

“Do you know old Carmichael’s initials, the doctor’s, that was member for Vaughan?” his friend asked, paying no attention to the schoolmaster’s question.

“James D.,” replied that authority; “I remember, because I once made the boys get up the members’ names along with their constituencies, so as to give the latter a living interest.”

“Now, listen to this:  ’Next of kin; information wanted concerning the whereabouts of James Douglas Carmichael, or his heirs at law.  He left the University of Edinburgh, where he was in attendance on the Faculty of Medicine, in the spring of 1848, being at the time twenty-one years of age.  The only trace of his farther life is a fragment of a letter written by him to a friend two years later, when he was serving as a soldier in the military station of Barrief, Upper Canada.  Reward offered for the same by P.R.  MacSmaill, W.S., 19 Clavers Row, Edinburgh.’  If James Douglas Carmichael, ex-medical student, wasn’t the member and the father of that girl of yours, I’m a Dutchman.”

“Mr. Coristine, I insist, sir, before another word passes between us, that you withdraw and apologize for the deeply offensive expression, which must surely have escaped your lips unperceived, ’that girl of yours.’”

“Oh, there, now, I’m always putting my foot in it.  I meant the girl you are interested in—­no, it isn’t that other—­the girl that’s interested in you—­oh, wirra wisha! it’s not that at all—­it’s the girl the captain was joking you about.”

“A joke from a comparatively illiterate man like the captain of the schooner, to whom we were under travelling obligations, and a joke from my equal, a scholar and a gentleman, are two distinct things.  I wish the expression, ‘that girl of yours,’ absolutely and forever withdrawn.”

“Well, well, I consent to withdraw it absolutely and apologize for saying it, but that ‘forever’ clause goes against my legal judgment.  If the late Dr. Carmichael’s heiress comes in for a fortune, we might repent that ‘forever.’”

“What has that to do with me, sir, fortune or no fortune?  Your insinuations are even more insulting than your open charges of infidelity to our solemn compact.”

It was Coristine’s turn to be angry.  He rose from the table at which he had been sitting, with the paper still in his hand, and said:  “You make mountains out of molehills, Wilkinson.  I’ve made you a fair and full apology, and shall do no more, if you sulk your head off.”  So saying, he stalked out of the room, and Wilkinson was too much angered to try to stop him.