“Must I be Ellen? We had a horrid nurse once, who used to slap us, and was called Ellen.”
“But it was her name. She was Ellen Douglas, and was in banishment on an island with her father. You are Ellen, and Josephine is your old harper—Allan Bane; she talks French, you know, and that will do for Highland: Gallic and Gaelic sound alike, you know. There! Then I’m going out hunting, and my dear gallant grey will drop down dead with fatigue, and I shall lose my way; and when you hear me wind my horn too-too, you get upon your hoop—that will be your boat, you know—and answer ‘Father!’ and when I too-too again, answer ‘Malcolm!’ and then put up your hand behind your ear, and stand listening
“With locks thrown back and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art;”
and then I’ll tell you what to do.”
Away scudded the delighted Kate; and after having lamented her gallant grey, and admired the Trosachs, came up too-tooing through her hand with all her might, but found poor Ellen, very unlike a monument of Grecian art, absolutely crying, and Allan Bane using his best English and kindest tones to console her.
“Miladi l’a stupéfaite—la pauvre petite!” began Josephine; and Kate in consternation asking what was the matter, and Josephine encouraging her, it was all sobbed out. She did not like to be called Ellen—and she thought it unkind to send her into banishment—and she had fancied she was to get astride on her hoop, which she justly thought highly improper—and above all, she could not bear to say ‘Father’—because—
“I never thought you would mind that,” said Kate, rather abashed. “I never did; and I never saw my papa or mamma either.”
“No—so you didn’t care.”
“Well then,” said Kate gravely, “we won’t play at that. Let’s have ‘Marmion’ instead; and I’ll be killed.”
“But I don’t like you to be killed.”