e."

"What are ye wantin' here wi' thae dirty boots?" Bella demanded.

"I came in to see the Honourable, and she has nothing to give poor Peter
to eat. Could he have a tea biscuit--not an Abernethy one, please, he
doesn't like them--or a bit of cake?"

"Of a' the impidence!" ejaculated Bella. "D'ye think I keep tea biscuits
and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit
of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled she wiped
her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up
for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire.

"Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter.
Here he comes snowkin'," as Peter ambled into the kitchen followed by
Pamela. That lady stood in the doorway.

"Do forgive me coming, but I love a kitchen. It is always the nicest
place in the house, I think; the shining tins are so cheerful, and the
red fire." She smiled in an engaging way at Bella, who, after a second,
and, as it were, reluctantly, smiled back.

"I see you have given the raider some biscuits," Pamela said.

"He's an ill laddie." Bella Bathgate looked at the Mhor standing
obediently on the bit of carpet, munching his biscuit, and her face
softened. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say
Miss Jean never lets him ken the want o' them."

"Miss Jean?"

"He bides at The Rigs wi' the Jardines--juist next door here. She's no a
bad lassie, Miss Jean, and wonderfu' sensible considerin'.... Are ye
finished, Mhor? Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me
get on wi' ma work."

Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the
sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the
table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.

"You've a lot of books," said Mhor. "I've a lot of books too--as many as
a hundred, perhaps. Jean teaches me poetry. Would you like me to say
some?"

"Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes. Mhor took
a long breath and began:

"'O take me to the Mountain O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
A whine for wild things' blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear--
Ah, if I could!'"

For some reason best known to himself Mhor was