"Yes, yes!" he murmured, "I believe you are right—true, it is about a very unfortunate shepherd—all lovers are unfortunate. These seem to be pretty songs—very pretty."
And he disconsolately turned over the leaves; then stopped and began reading.
"Here is one more cheerful," he said; "suppose I read it, my dear Miss Belle-bouche."
And he read:
"'Twas when the sun had left the west,
And starnies twinkled clearie, O,
I hied to her I lo'e the best,
My blithesome, winsome dearie, O.
"Her cherry lip, her e'e sae blue,
Her dimplin' cheek sae bonnie, O,
An' 'boon them a' her heart sae true,
Hae won me mair than ony, O."
"Pretty, isn't it?" sighed Jacques; "but here is another verse:
"Yestreen we met beside the birk,
A-down ayont the burnie, O,
An' wan'er't till the auld gray kirk
A stap put to our journie, O.
"Ah, lassie, there it stans! quo' I——"
With which words Jacques shut the book, and threw upon Belle-bouche a glance which made that young lady color to the roots of her hair.