"Then," continued Winsome, without moving (for, though so unhappy and uncomfortable, she sat still—some women are born with a genius for martyrdom), "then I had a long talk with Meg."
"And the babe?" queried Ralph, letting her hair run through his fingers.
"And the babe," said Winsome; "she had laid it to sleep under a stock, and when we went to see, it looked so sweet under the narrow arch of the corn! Then it looked up with big wondering eyes. I believe he thought the inside of the stook was as high as a temple."
"It is not I that am the poet!" said Ralph, transferring his attention for a moment from her hair.
"Meg says Jock Forrest is perfectly good to her, and that she would not change her man for all Greatorix Castle."
"Does Jock make a good grieve?" asked Ralph.
"The very best; he is a great comfort to me," replied his wife. "I get far more time to work at the children's things—and also to look after my Ursa Major!"
"What of Jess?" asked Ralph; "did Meg say?"
"Jess has taken the Lady Elizabeth to call on My Lord at Bowhill! What do you think of that? And she leads Agnew Greatorix about like a lamb, or rather like a sheep. He gets just one glass of sherry at dinner," said Winsome, who loved a spice of gossip—as who does not?
"There is a letter from my father this morning," said Ralph, half turning to pick it off his desk; "he is well, but he is in distress, he says, because he got his pocket picked of his handkerchief while standing gazing in at a shop window wherein books were displayed for sale, but John Bairdieson has sewed another in at the time of writing. They had a repeating tune the other day, and the two new licentiates are godly lads, and turning out a credit to the kirk of the Marrow."