s
dripping, the flowers closed and heavy, the river red and drumly. All
was disappointing; for the meadows were beautiful at this season with
their summer snow of daisies--not dead-white snow either, for it was
broken by patches of yellow buttercups, crow's-foot, lady's-finger, and
vetch, and by the crimson clover flowers and the rusty red of sorrel,
and the black pert heads of the nib-wort plaintain, whose black upon the
white of ox-eye daisies has the rich tone of ermine.

Instead of walks, there were gatherings round shining tables; and
bottles and glasses clinked cheerily in many a parlour. But Mr.
Spottiswoode was sober by inclination. The impressiveness of office,
which had quite the contrary effect on many provosts of his era, only
added to his characteristic caution. The yeomen, too, knew well where
hilarity ended and excess began. So there was little fear of excess in
Mr. Spottiswoode's house. Mrs. Spottiswoode, a genius in her own line,
had a cheerful fire in her drawing-room, and sat by the hearth with her
children tumbling round her, while Corrie, fairer than ever in the
blinking fire-light, and Chrissy, brown and merry, sat on either side of
her. She invited the farmer laird to enter that charmed ring, which, of
course, he could not help contrasting with the loneliness and
comfortlessness of Bourhope. But though Bourhope sat next Corrie, a
certain coldness crept over the well-arranged party. He caught himself
glancing curiously at the book Chrissy Hunter had been almost burning
her face in reading by the fire-light before he came in. Mrs.
Spottiswoode did not much care for reading aloud, but she took the hint
in good part, and called on Chrissy to tell what her book was about, and
so divert Bourhope without wholly monopolizing his attention.

Chrissy was rather shy at first. She never told stories freely away
from home; but she was now pressed to do it. After a little, however,
she put her own sympathetic humour and pathos into the wondrous
narrative, till she literally held her listeners spell-bound. And no
wonder. Those were the days of Scott's early novels, when they were
greatly run after, and the price of a night's reading was high.
Chrissy's cousin "Rob" was a bookseller's apprentice, and his master,
for the purpose of enabling Robbie to share his enthusiasm, would lend
the apprentice an uncut copy. Robbie brought it out to Blackfaulds,
and then all would sit up, sick mother among the rest, to hear t