“Corn rigs and barley rigs,
Corn rigs are bonnie.”
Sweet, clear, and full is little Katie’s voice, and she leans forward, with her bright eyes dwelling kindly on Lady Anne’s face, while, with affectionate pleasure, the good Lady Anne sits still, and works, and listens—the sweet child’s voice, in which there is still scarcely a graver modulation to tell of the coming woman, echoing into the generous gentle heart which scarcely all its life has had a selfish thought to interrupt the simple beautiful admiration of its unenvious love.
“Katie, ye little cuttie!” exclaimed the horror-stricken mother, looking in at the door.
Katie started; but it was only with privileged boldness to look up smilingly into her mother’s face, as she finished the last verse of her song.
“Eh, Lady Anne, what can I say to you?” said Mrs Stewart, coming forward with indignant energetic haste; “or what will your ladyship say to that forward monkey? Katie, have I no admonished ye to get the manners of a serving lassie at your peril, however grand the folk were ye saw; but, nevertheless, to gie honour where honour is due, as it’s commanded. I think shame to look ye in the face, Lady Anne, after hearing a bairn of mine use such a freedom.”
“But you have no need, Mrs Stewart,” said Lady Anne, “for Katie is at home.”
There was the slightest possible tone of authority in the words, gentle as they were; and Mrs Stewart felt herself put down.
“Weel, your ladyship kens best; but I came to speak about Katie, Lady Anne. I’m thinking I’ll need to bring her hame.”
Mrs Stewart had her revenge. Lady Anne’s quiet face grew red and troubled, and she struggled to loose herself from her bondage, and turn round to face the threatening visitor.