Morag stood listening in silent wonder. The conversation had gone far beyond her depth, poor little woman! and she was about to explain that it was so, when Blanche continued—
"What books do you like best, Morag? I like fairy-stories much best—something about dragons, and giants, and all that kind of thing, you know."
Morag's cheek flushed crimson as she replied—
"A' books look richt bonnie to me, leddy, but I'm no fit to read none o' them."
Blanche felt considerable astonishment at this disclosure. But, noticing her companion's embarrassment, she tried to receive it unmoved, and said, rather patronizingly—
"Ah! well, Morag, but you can do so many useful things besides."
Morag smiled. Her quick perceptions detected Blanche's kindly attempt to cover her embarrassment with a compliment. For now that the critical eyes of the smart maid were withdrawn, she began to feel more at ease, and at last ventured to ask a question, to which she had been very anxious to get an answer since that morning when she stood listening to Blanche's warblings among the pines.
"Yon was a richt bonnie sang ye were singin' i' the fir-wood, leddy. Will the Lord that died on the hill be ane o' the chieftains that used to bide lang syne i' the castle?"
"I'm sure I quite forget what song I was singing, I know so many. But I don't think I do know one about a chieftain, though," said Blanche, shaking her curls in perplexity.
"It tellt aboot a good Lord that deed upo' a green hill, and suffered terrible, I'm thinkin'. I heard a' the words ye were singin' richt plain like among the firs."