you to-day already," said I, and told her where and
when.

"I did not see you," she said. "My eyes are big, but there are better
than mine at seeing far. Only I heard singing in the house."

"That was Miss Grant," said I, "the eldest and the bonniest."

"They say they are all beautiful," said she.

"They think the same of you, Miss Drummond," I replied, "and were all
crowding to the window to observe you."

"It is a pity about my being so blind," said she, "or I might have seen
them too. And you were in the house? You must have been having the fine
time with the fine music and the pretty ladies."

"There is just where you are wrong," said I; "for I was as uncouth as a
sea-fish upon the brae of a mountain. The truth is that I am better
fitted to go about with rudas men than pretty ladies."

"Well, I would think so too, at all events!" said she, at which we both
of us laughed.

"It is a strange thing, now," said I. "I am not the least afraid with
you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of your
cousin too."

"O, I think any man will be afraid of her," she cried. "My father is
afraid of her himself."

The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she
walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the
much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a
traitor to be silent.

"Speaking of which," said I, "I met your father no later than this
morning."

"Did you?" she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me.
"You saw James More? You will have spoken with him, then?"

"I did even that," said I.

Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible.
She gave me a look of mere gratitude. "Ah, thank you for that!" says
she.

"You thank me for very little," said I, and then stopped. But it seemed
when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. "I
spoke rather ill to him," said I; "I did not like him very much; I spoke
him rather ill, and he was angry."

"I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his
daughter!" she cried out. "But those that do not love and cherish him I
will not know."

"I will take the freedom of a word yet," said I, beginning to tremble.
"Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of good spirits at
Prestongrange's. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it's
a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the