“Thank you, ma'am, but please do not send the verses anywhere.”
“I will not, except I find them worthy. You need not be afraid. For my father's sake I will have an eye to your reputation.”
“I am obliged to you, ma'am,” returned Andrew, but with his curious smile, hard to describe. It had in it a wonderful mixing of sweetness and humor, and a something that seemed to sit miles above his amusement. A heavenly smile it was, knowing too much to be angry. It had in it neither offense nor scorn. In respect of his poetry he was shy like a girl, but he showed no rejection of the patronage forced upon him by the lady.
He rose and stood a moment.
“Well, Andrew, what is it?”
“When will you allow me to call for the verses?”
“In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father.”
“I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry.”
“You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not have known.”
“That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion.”