"I don't know. _I_ never saw him. And the winters are so long and terrible! Nothing but snowy hills about you, and great clouds always coming down with fresh loads of snow to scatter over them." "Then you don't want to go back?" "No. There is nothing to make me wish to go back. There is no one there to love me now." She looked very sad for a few moments. "Yes," said Alec, thoughtfully; "a winter without love must be dreadful. But I like the winter; and we have plenty of it in our quarter too." "Where is your home?" "Not many miles north of this." "Is it a nice place?" "Of course I think so." "Ah! you have a mother. I wish I knew her." "I wish you did.--True: the whole place is like her to me. But I don't think everybody would admire it. There are plenty of bare snowy hills there too in winter. But I think the summers and the harvests are as delightful as anything can be, except--" "Except what?" "Don't make me say what will make you angry with me." "Now you must, else I shall fancy something that will make me _more_ angry." "Except your face, then," said Alec, frightened at his own boldness, but glancing at her shyly. She flushed a little, but did not look angry. "I don't like that," she said. "It makes one feel awkward." "At least," rejoined Alec, emboldened, "you must allow it is your own fault." "I can't help my face," she said, laughing. "Oh! you know what I mean. You made me say it." "Yes, after you had half-said it already. Don't do it again." And there followed more of such foolish talk, uninteresting to my readers. "Where were you at school?" asked Alec, after a pause. "Your uncle told me you were at school." "Near London," she answered. "Ah! that accounts for your beautiful speech." "There again. I declare I will wake my uncle if you go on in that way." "I beg your pardon," protested Alec; "I forgot." "But," she went on, "in Sutherlandshire we don't talk so horribly as they do here." "I daresay not," returned Alec, humbly. "I don't mean you. I wonder how it is that you speak so much better than all the people here." "I suppose because my mother speaks well. She never lets me speak broad Scotch to her." "Your mother again! She's everything to you." Alec did not reply. "I _should_ like to see her," pursued Kate. "You must come and see her, then." "See whom?" asked Mr Fraser, rousing himself from his nap. "My mother, sir," answered Alec. "Oh! I thought you had been speaking of Katie's friend," said the professor, and fell asleep again. "Uncle means Bessie Warner, who is coming by the steamer from London on Monday. Isn't it kind of uncle to ask her to come and see me here?" "He is kind always. Was Miss Warner a schoolfellow of yours?" "Yes--no--not exactly. She was one of the governesses. I _must_ go and meet her at the steamer. Will you go with me?" "I shall be delighted. Do you know when she arrives?" "They say about six. I daresay it is not very punctual."