I have helped Christine as much as she has helped me. She
knows that, she has often said so."

"I'll warrant! It was womanlike! She said it to mak' ye feel
comfortable, when you o'erworked her. Did ye ever say the like to
her?"

"I am going to call her. She is better with me than with Cluny
Macpherson--that I am sure of."

"You and her for it. Settle the matter as it suits ye, but I can tell
ye, I hae been parfectly annoyed, on several occasions, wi' your clear
selfishness--and that is the vera outcome o' all my thoughts on this
subject."

Then Neil went to the door, and called Christine thrice, and the power
of long habit was ill to restrain, so she left her lover hurriedly
and went to him.

"I have been watching and waiting--waiting for you, Christine, the
last three hours."

"Tak' tent o' what you say, Neil. It isna twa hours yet, since we had
dinner."

"You should have told me that you were intending to fritter and fool
your afternoon away."

"My mither bid me go and speir after Norman's little laddie. He had a
sair cold and fever, and----"

"Sit down. Are your hands clean? I want you to copy a very important
paper."

"What aboot?"

"Differences in the English and Scotch Law."

"I don't want to hae anything to do wi' the Law. I canna understand
it, and I'm no wanting to understand it."

"It is not necessary that you should understand it, but you know what
a peculiar writing comes from my pen. I can manage Latin or Greek, but
I cannot write plainly the usual English. Now, you write a clear, firm
hand, and I want you to copy my important papers. I believe I have
lost honors at college, just through my singular writing."

"I wouldn't wonder. It is mair like the marks the robin's wee feet
make on the snow, than the writing o' human hands. I wonder, too, if
the robin kens his ain footmarks, and if they mean anything to him.
Maybe they say, 'It's vera cold this morning--and the ground is
covered wi' snow--and I'm vera hungry--hae ye anything for me this
morning?' The sma footmarks o' the wee birds might mean all o' this,
and mair too, Neil."

"What nonsense you are talking! Run away and wash your hands. They are
stained and soiled with something."

"Wi' the wild thyme, and the rosemary, and the wall-flowers."

"And the rough, tarry hand of Cluny Macpherson. Be quick! I am in a
hurry."

"It is Saturday afternoon, Neil. Feyther and Eneas will be up from the
boats anon. I dinna care to write for y