"I never said," whispered Lilian; "but it is Walter Fenton—a pretty one, is it not, nurse?"
"Fenton?—he'll be ane o' the auld Fentons owre the water; as gallant and stalwart a race as ever Fifeshire saw."
"I hope so," sighed Lilian; "but, oh Elsie! there is some sad mystery about this poor young man. When a very little child, he was found nestled in his dead mother's bosom in the kirk-yard of the Greyfriars, in that terrible time you will remember?"
"My bonnie bairn, it was indeed a fearfu' time; but, by his winsome face, I warrant him come o' gentle kin."
"Dost think so, dear nursie?"
"Not Claver'se himsel has an eye that glints wi' mair pride, or a lip that curls mair haughtily. True gentle blood can aye be kent by the curl o' the lip. I warrant his blude's as gude as ony in braid Scotland."
"Oh; 'tis for that I pity and love him so much," said Lilian artlessly. As she spoke, Walter, who was conversing with Lady Grisel, unexpectedly looked full towards her; he had removed his steel cap, and the long black locks beneath it flowed in cavalier profusion over his scarlet doublet. He never looked so prepossessing; and, fearing that he had overheard her, the cheek of the timid girl grew scarlet and then deadly pale; and to hide her confusion, she bent her face towards the old nurse, requesting her to bind up her hair.
"In ringlets and heart-breakers such as never Maister Pouncet fashioned, shall I twine thy bonnie gowden hair to-morrow, hinny," said the old woman, kissing with fond respect the white forehead of Lilian; for those were days when the highest and the lowest classes in Scotland were bound together by such endearing ties as never will exist again. "And nae mair shall your dainty arms and jimpy waist be bound wi' aught but Naples silk and three-pile taffeta."
"Ah! nurse Elsie, if my heart is always as happy and light as Meinie's, it will matter little what I wear."
"Sae said your lady mother, that's dead and gane; yea, and your great-aunt Grisel too (but silk and damask are grand braws, hinny!): and, waes me! thae wrinkled auld hands hae braided the bonnie hair o' baith. And now the head o' ane is turned frae the hue o' the raven's wing to that o' the new-fa'n snaw; and the head o' the other, oh, waly! waly! lies low in the kirk vaults o' St. Rocque. I mind a time when the hair o' my lady there was as glossy as yours; yea, and her brow as smooth, and her cheek glowing like the red rowan berry. It is many a lang and weary year ago, and yet it seemeth but as yesterday, when your kinsman, umquhile Sir Archibald, first cam riding up the dykeside to Cowdenknowes, wi' my puir gudeman, John Elshender, astride his cloak-bags on a high trotting mear; and weel I mind the time when first he drew his chair in by the ingle, and lookit awfu' things at Lady Grisel. Certes, but she was ill to please at her toilet after that! Frae morning till e'enin' there was nought but busking wi' braws, frizzling and puffing and perfuming; tying and untying, and flaunting wi' breast-knots and fardingales, and working wi' essence o' daffodils and gilliflower water. That was mony a year before that vile limmer Cromwell led his ill-faured host on this side o' the English bounds. He was a braw and a buirdly man Sir Archibald, though when last he rode forth frae the aikwoods o' the auld Place owre the muir, his pow was lyart enough. Methink I see him yet, as I saw him first, our brave auld laird! His green doublet o' taffeta, stiff wi' buckram, bombast, and gowden lace—his lang buff boots and clanking spurs—his broadsword and dudgeon-knife—and a bonnie ger-falcon on his nether wrist, wi' a plume on its head and siller varvels on its legs. Mony a sair gloom he gaed that braw chield, the Laird o' Caickmuir; but Lady Grisel could never thole the Muirs, for they gained baith haugh and holm by pinglin' wi' base merchandise in Nungate o' Haddintoun, when the Humes were winning the broomy knowes o' Cowden by the sharp spur and the long spear——"