ent upon turning his mind quite away from her schemes until the time
came for action. She even went so far as to talk about all sorts of
things in the most ordinary way, as if she and Duncan were to pass all
their lives in the cottage on the moor.

The afternoon meal was waiting for them when they went in. Their mother
had cooked them a nice slice of bacon, and had baked them each what the
children called a bun, which was a little piece of dough from the
regular bread-making, baked separately. It always seemed much sweeter
than the ordinary loaf, and was crisp and crusty, like our rolls, so I
don't think there was much to grumble over, although they had not had
any dinner.

When it was ended Mrs. MacDougall sat down to her knitting, while Elsie
cleared away. She was making stockings for the coming winter, and was
employed on Elsie's at present.

"It's gettin' a long stocking," the old grandmother said, as she watched
the length of leg and foot dangling from the pins. "You can't get to the
end o' it so quick as you used when it was about three inches from toe
to heel, an' the baby's five toes like so many pink beads."

All the children laughed at the idea. It seemed so funny to think of
Elsie, big-limbed, strong, and sunburnt, as a tiny babe.

"But a bonnie baby was Elsie," the old grandmother went on: "the
bonniest of all, eh, Meg?"

"Elsie was a beautiful baby," Mrs. MacDougall replied. "Her father was
real proud of her, and used to carry her about with him evening times,
long after she ought by good rights to have been a-bed. You remember
that, mother?"

"Eh, well enough," the old woman replied.

Duncan glanced at Elsie uneasily, but he could read nothing in her face.
Then he was guilty of laying a little trap.

"Was Elsie prettier than Robbie, then?" he asked.

"She was a prettier baby," Mrs. MacDougall answered, looking from one to
the other, and putting her hand on Robbie's fair curls, almost as if she
were doing him an injustice to say it. "Yes, I think every one would say
Elsie was the bonnier baby. Robbie was but a puling, pasty-faced little
thing, thin and miserable, not a crowing, bright little thing like the
others. He wanted a deal o' care, did Robbie, an' I will say he's had it
always."

"That he has, that he has," the old grandmother assented, warmly. "His
poor----"

"Father wouldn't know him if he was to see him now," said Mrs.
MacDougall, finishing her old mother's sentence.

For Duncan