ndow, and crossing the room to the place I sat, leaned herself
against my knee.

"Listen," she said:

Jock Stair's gone away,
Where I cannot fancy.
Jock Stair's gone away,
Gone and left his Nancy.

O, Jock, I cannot say
How much I miss you,
If you were here to-day
Nancy would kiss you.

Her cheeks were roses, her eyes shone with a misty light, and the verse
so rapturous to herself that she struck her little hands together when
she had finished.

"Do you like it, Jock? Is it pretty?" she asked.

"You blessed baby," I answered, "who taught you?"

"They _come_," she said, "and afterward Nancy's head-iks," and she
put her morsel of a hand to her forehead, as a grown person with
headache does.

"_Head-iks!_" she said again with emphasis.

The second day after this remarkable event, Sandy, who was riding by,
called over the wall to me, as I stood with Nancy by my side.

"Well," he cried, "what do you think of my girl, Nancy Stair?"

"The same that you do yourself," I retorted. "Come in and lunch with
us, won't you?"

He made no answer in words, but turning his horse toward the south
gate, entered the policy, and I sent Nancy off to tell Kirstie that Mr.
Carmichael would dine with us, for I thought it no right part of a
child's rearing that she should hear herself discussed.

As she took her small body around the boxwood, lifting it up on the
toes at every step--a way she had when pleased--"You've raised up a
wonderful child for me, Sandy," I said, and I told him of the verses
she writ the day before.

"Aye," he answered, "I didn't tell ye of them, for I wanted that ye
should find out about her verses yourself. I've a book full of them,
and she but five. But after all's said and done," he went on, "'tis the
heart of her that's more wonderful than the head. Christmas a year back
I was walking out with her, and some shiftless beggars got in the path
and asked for money. 'In truth,' I answered, knowing what frauds they
were, 'I haven't a penny in the world!' I thought the child had let the
incident pass unnoticed, but that evening the door to my bedroom opened
and Nancy, in her white nightgown, walked in. She came to the
writing-table shyly, and after putting a large copper penny on the edge
of the table, pushed it toward me with her forefinger.

"'You tan have it,' she said; 'I tan dit anover.'

"There it is, the copper penny," he cried, with a laugh, though there