He had, for such girls as were not frightened by his beard and his position, a queer, provocative glint in his eye, which they would savor and giggle at. "He 's a pleasant fellow, Mr. Robertson," they agreed. "He could be fine and pleasant to a girl he liked, I 'll warrant you! They do say--" and here some immaterial scandal was told. It was strange how he ran across Jean Lindsay, for he made it a rule to have nothing to do socially--if one could call it socially--with the girls in the mill. He had noticed her a few times about the place--a stately sort of girl with calm brow and eyes. He admired the fine figure she had--the shapely arms and rich bosom. A woman, that! None of your fragile dolls! And twice he had seen her leave the works at quitting time, a figure in a Paisley shawl and skirt and blouse, none of the cheap finery of the mill worker. "Yon 's a fine girl!" he thought, and forgot her. It was one night on Cave Hill he discovered her again, a soft June night with a half-moon in the sky. He had been out for a tramp and sat down to watch the city beneath him. He heard a rustle in the heather beside him. He got up immediately. "I beg your pardon." He noticed suddenly a girl looking at him, seated not ten yards away. "I did n't know there was any one here." "It's all right, Mr. Robertson." The voice was calm and self-possessed as that of any woman of the great world. He had to look a few instants before he recognized her. "You 've seen me at the works," she explained. "Why, of course I have," he remembered. "What are you doing here all alone?" "Oh, I like to come up of an evening among the heather," she told him. "It's a bonny wee flower. I don't wonder the bees love it. The Danes," she added slowly, "used to make a heather ale, but that's gone now. It must have tasted fine." "It's a queer hour to come here." "It's a lot of other time I have," she replied, "and I tending your weavers from all but dawn until the fall o' day! I like it this time, though, for you see things now you would n't see in the daytime. You can hear the plover at night, calling like children. And just now a badger passed me, gray as a gaffer. I bees waiting, too," she said, and she smiled, "when the moon comes up to see the fairies dancing on the hillside. There must be a lot o' the child in me," she explained, "because I do be thinking long." "There's not many girls come up here their lonesome." "There 's none think me beauty enough to come with." "Thon 's a town of blind men." And they both laughed. "Maybe I 'm not missing much." "By God! You are!" And he leaned forward and kissed her.