I had often admired a lassie before then, if scarce so sudden and strong; and it was rather my disposition to withdraw than to come forward, for I was much in fear of mockery from the womenkind. You would have thought I had now all the more reason to pursue my common practice, since I had met this young lady in the city street, seemingly following a prisoner, and accompanied with two very ragged indecent-like Highlandmen. But there was here a different ingredient; it was plain the girl thought I had been prying in her secrets; and with my new clothes and sword, and at the top of my new fortunes, this was more than I could swallow. The beggar on horseback could not bear to be thrust down so low, or, at least of it, not by this young lady. I followed, accordingly, and took off my new hat to her the best that I was able. “Madam,” said I, “I think it only fair to myself to let you understand I have no Gaelic. It is true I was listening, for I have friends of my own across the Highland line, and the sound of that tongue comes friendly; but for your private affairs, if you had spoken Greek, I might have had more guess at them.” She made me a little, distant curtsey. “There is no harm done,” said she, with a pretty accent, most like the English (but more agreeable). “A cat may look at a king.” “I do not mean to offend,” said I. “I have no skill of city manners; I never before this day set foot inside the doors of Edinburgh. Take me for a country lad—it’s what I am; and I would rather I told you than you found it out.” “Indeed, it will be a very unusual thing for strangers to be speaking to each other on the causeway,” she replied. “But if you are landward [2] bred it will be different. I am as landward as yourself; I am Highland, as you see, and think myself the farther from my home.” “It is not yet a week since I passed the line,” said I. “Less than a week ago I was on the braes of Balwhidder.” “Balwhither?” she cries. “Come ye from Balwhither! The name of it makes all there is of me rejoice. You will not have been long there, and not known some of our friends or family?” “I lived with a very honest, kind man called Duncan Dhu Maclaren,” I replied. “Well, I know Duncan, and you give him the true name!” she said; “and if he is an honest man, his wife is honest indeed.” “Ay,” said I, “they are fine people, and the place is a bonny place.” “Where in the great world is such another!” she cries; “I am loving the smell of that place and the roots that grow there.”