"What a splendid view you have from this house," continued Captain Forrester. "I think it's much finer than from our place."
The squire's shoulders moved with an impatient movement. The article he was reading must decidedly have annoyed him.
"Yes," answered Joyce; "but you should come and see it in summer or in autumn. It's very bleak now. The spring is so late this year."
"Ay; I don't remember a snowfall in March these five years," said father.
"But it has a beautiful effect on this plain," continued the young man, moving away into the window again. And then turning round to Joyce, he added, "Do you sketch, Miss Maliphant?"
"No, no," answered father for her. "We have no time for such things. We have all of us plenty to do without any accomplishments."
"Miss Margaret can sing 'Robin Adair,'" put in the squire, "as well as I want to hear it, accomplishments or not."
"Indeed," said Captain Forrester, with a show of interest. "I hope she will sing it to me some day."
He said it with a certain air of patronage, which I found afterwards came from his own excellent knowledge of music.
"Are you fond of singing?" said I, simply. I was too much of a country girl to think of denying the charge. I was very fond of good music; it was second nature to me, inherited, I suppose, from some forgotten ancestor, and picking out tunes on the old piano was the only thing that ever kept me willingly in-doors. Father delighted in my simple singing of simple ditties, and so did the squire; I had grown used to thinking it was a talent in me, my only one, and I was not ashamed of owning up to it. "I'll sing it to you now if you like."