“I must ask ye to excuse me to-night,” he replied coldly. “I have been speaking in the open air and my voice is tired.”
“Then I will recite in your stead,” cried Eppy, determined to make an impression on the romantic young farmer.
They crowded around her, laughing and joking, for poor Eppy was the innocent, unsuspecting butt of society.
“What is your selection?” someone asked seriously.
“’Tis about the cunning little animal Mr. Burns saw on the lady’s bonnet,” replied Eppy. “The lady’s name was—er——” She paused and looked inquiringly into Robert’s grimly amused face.
“Ye would be very much surprised, perhaps shocked and grieved, Miss McKay,” he answered, “were I to mention the lady’s name here, so I’ll spare your feelings. Please recite the poem.” Eppy made a deep courtesy, blissfully unconscious that the lady in question was none else than herself. And after arranging her dress to her satisfaction, cleared her throat affectedly and made several ineffectual attempts to begin the recitation. Gradually a look of comical despair puckered up her face, and turning to Robert with an embarrassed giggle, she exclaimed poutingly, “I cannot recall a single line. How provoking, and I protest. I knew every line by rote this morning. Please start me on the first verse, Mr. Burns.”
The spectacle of this silly old woman making a fool of herself before that heartless crowd both annoyed and embarrassed Robert. “The last verse is my favorite,” he replied, frowning angrily at the amused titters which reached his ears from all sides, and quickly he read the verse through:
“Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see ourselves as others see us.
It wad fra many a blunder free us, and foolish notion