“Poor creatures! And who is it? Though I never get over the door you’ll tell me nothing.”
The Paymaster answered shortly. “It’s the pair from Maam,” said he, and back to his paper again.
Up to his brow the Cornal put a trembling hand and seemed amazed and startled. Then he recollected, and a sad smile came to his visage. “Not a clod altogether yet!” said he, half to himself and half to his brother. “I felt the flutter of a wing. But it’s not your grief or mine this time, Jock; it’s your poor recruit’s.”
“He’s down in Miss Mary’s room, and that’s the place for the like of him.”
“Is it?” said the Cornal. “Dugald understood him best of any of us; he saw this coming, and I mind that he grieved for the fellow.”
“He’s grieving plenty for himself, and let him!” said the Paymaster, setting aside his journal. “Look what he dropped from his pocket this morning. Peggy thought it was mine and she took it to me. Mine! Fancy that! I’m jalousing she was making a joke of me.” He produced, as he spoke, a scrap of paper with some verses on it and handed it to his brother.
The Cornal held the document far from his failing eyes and perused the writing. It was the first of those heart-wrung fancies that went to the making of the volume that lies before me as I write—the familiar lament for the lost “Maid of the Moor” that shepherds still are singing on his native hills.
“A ballant!” said he, wondering, and with some contempt.
“That’s just what it is,” said his brother. “There was never the like broke out in this family before, I’m glad to say.”
The Cornal screwed his lips firmly. “It’s what I would call going altogether too far,” he said. “I’m feared your recruit will affront us again. A song, now! did you ever know the like of it? I’ll not put up with it! Did you say he was down with Miss Mary?”