One lovely moonlight night in autumn, however, when Laird Fletcher—for that was his name—found himself seated beside Annie and her maid in an arbour that overlooked the dreamy, hazy forest, he suddenly said to Jeannie:
“Jeannie, I’d be the happiest man on earth if I only had this darling child to be my bride.”
Annie never spoke. She simply smiled, thinking he was in fun.
But after a pause the Laird took Annie’s hand:
“Ah! dear lassie, I’ll give you plenty of time to think of it. I’d care for you as the apple of my eye; I’d love you with a love that younger men cannot even dream of, and not a lady in all the land should be dressed so braw as my own wee dove.”
Annie drew her hand from his; then—I can’t tell why—perhaps she did not know herself, she put her little white hands to her face and burst into tears.
With loving words and kind, he tried to soothe her, but like a startled deer she sprang away from him, dashed across the lawn, and sought shelter in her own boudoir.
The Laird, honest fellow, was sad, and sorry, too, that he had proposed to Annie; but then he really was to be excused. What is it a man will not do whom love urges on?
Laird Fletcher was easy-minded, however, and hopeful on the whole.
“Ah! well,” he said to himself; “she’ll come round in time, and if that black-haired young farmer were only out of the way, I’d win the battle before six months were over. Gives himself a mighty deal too much side, he does. Young men are mostly fools—I’ll go into the house and smoke a pipe with my aged friend, McLeod.”