"She's jist pat on ane o' her low necked morning gowns, an' she's that thin that they show ower muckle o' her neck," said Marget apologetically.
"She is lovely," I said; "you should have named her Annie Laurie," and I hummed the old song:
"Her cheek is like the snow drift,
Her neck is like the swan."
"Dae ye really think she is that bonnie?" Tammas smiled, pleased that I should have compared her to Annie Laurie.
"It is not exactly beauty so much, Tammas," I said; "it is something like royalty. She looks like some Greek nymph of the woods that has stepped out of a water lily."
Marget was smiling at my praise.
"Ay, but it's jist as ye say, Jack," said Tammas. "Oor lassie looks that way." He stopped and his voice dropped. "An' her bonnie mother, oor daughter,—it is that like her that Elsie is,—aye, the very twin star o' oor ain bairn, Marget."
"Look," said Marget, "dae you ken I canna mak her wear her shoes yet, when there's nobody aboot, and the pools o' the spring sae inviting. Look ye, if ever there was a child," and she laughed, pulling Tammas and me to the door to see better.
Elsie had stopped, and sat down on the grass above the pool, her pitcher beside her, and was splashing her feet in the water.
"She may be grown, Tammas, but she is the same child I've known always. I remember the funny little thing when she was two years old."