hort-gown, as it is called, with a small tartan shawl pinned round her
neck. This was her dress--the dress common to female farm-servants,
which to neatness joins fitness: it is not in the way, and it gives all
the muscles free room for exercise; but it is rapidly becoming a thing
of the past now, the more's the pity! Her hair was all drawn behind and
twisted up at the back of her head, where it was fastened by a little
common horn comb: she had also a string of amber glass beads round her
neck.

This girl turned round and looked at the doctor with a simple stare of
curiosity, such as her class fix on a stranger.

The doctor was startled, he almost uttered a low cry of admiration: the
face was perfect, heavenly, indescribable.

Bell, who was sitting up in bed supported by pillows, said, "Isn't she a
bonnie lassie, doctor?"

"Hoot!" said the girl--"hoot, Bell! that's nae news. Could ye no tell us
something we dinna ken?"

From some lips this might have been an impertinent remark: from hers it
had the most piquant charm of simplicity.

The doctor, having recovered from his first thrill of surprise, said,
"Where do you live, my good girl?"

"Wi' my faither, sir," she said simply.

"Who is your father?" he asked.

"He is ane o' our neighbors," Bell answered.

"Just up the gate a bit," the girl said.

"Over at Claygates?" said the doctor.

"A wee bit farrer yont, sir," the girl said, and disappeared into an
inner room.

"I wonder I never saw her before," the doctor said to his patient.

"Weel, she's worth seeing: she's--"

But the rustic beauty reappeared, and Bell did not speak further.

Dr. Brunton's visit had exceeded its ordinary limits, and he rose to go.
The girl opened the door for him, and as he was passing out he said to
her, "Are you often here?"

"Gey an' often: Bell's an auld friend o' my mither's, and I run over to
speir for her aye when I've time."

"Shall you be here to-morrow?"

"Oh, ay: I'll be here the morn and the next day, and maybe the day
after: I'll be often here as lang as I'm at hame."

"And where will you be when you are not at home?"

"Weel, sir"--and she hesitated a little--"weel, sir, where can the like
o' me be but at service? We hae nae muckle choice, folk like us."

"Choice!" thought the doctor. "At service! Why, to be served by a being
wearing such a face must be like being waited on by an angel: she might
have her choice of the crowned heads of Europe."

He spra