gently-born
laird's daughter every afternoon dipped the Dutch porcelain jug which
carried the fresh spring-water wherewith to infuse her mother's
cherished, tiny cup of tea. Young Home was passing, and he stepped
aside, and offered to take the little vessel from her hand, and stoop
and fill it. He did this with a silent salutation and glance that,
retaining its wonted downward aim, yet suddenly lightened as if it loved
to rest upon the little girlish figure, in its homely tucked-up gown,
the crimson hood drawn over the chestnut hair that turned back in a
crisp wave from the bold, frank, innocent face. But she waved him off,
and balancing her foot upon the edge-stone, saw herself reflected in the
steel-like water. Then he begged with rare softness in a voice that was
rough and gruff, unless it deepened with strong feeling--

"Will you suffer me, Nelly Carnegie? I would give my hand to pluck but a
flower to serve you."

Had he tried that tone at first, before she was more than chilled by his
sombre and imperious gravity, before her mother supported him
unrelentingly and galled and exasperated her by persecution, he might
have attracted, fascinated, conquered. As it was, she jeered at him.

"Serve me! he could do me no better service than 'mount and go.' A posy!
it would be the stinging-nettle and dank dock if he gathered it."

The revenge he took was rude enough, but it was not unheard of in those
days. He caught her by the wrist, and under the shadow of the abutting
gable he kissed the knitted brow and curling lips, holding her the while
with a grasp so tight that it gave her pain. When she wrung herself from
him, she shook her little hand with a rage that quivered through every
nerve, and had more of hate than of romping folly or momentary pique in
its passion.

"Nelly Carnegie," said her mother, as she carefully pulled out the edge
of a coil of yellow point-lace, which rested on her inlaid foreign
work-table, and contrasted with her black mode cloak and white skinny
fingers, and looking with her keen, cold, grey eyes on the rebellious
daughter standing before her, went on, "I have word that Staneholme goes
south in ten days."

Nelly could have said, "And welcome," but she knew the consequences, and
forbore.

"He's willin' to take you with him, Nelly, and he shows his good blood
when he holds that a Carnegie needs no tocher."

Still Nelly did not answer, though she started so violently that her
loosely-crossed