Out of doors in the sunshine, Maggie McGillivray sang the “Learig,” and with a gay flourish of her shears accompanied the swell of the “owerword,” as she ended every verse. At the window in the kitchen, Miss Aggie Rodger sat in a heap upon the table, and stayed her needle in mid-course, while she accomplished the Ro-o-se of A-ah-allandale; and within here the little form of Violet expanded, and her small face glowed, as her story progressed; while Rose smiled and worked, and glanced at the book; and Martha, with fresh and genuine pleasure, listened and looked on. After all, the gift of song is a fair gift to this laborious world. There was nothing very grand or elevated in either the ballads or the fable, yet enough to stir the heart, and keep the busy hands from weariness--and to do that, is to do well and merit a hearty blessing of the world. Cuthbert was loth to disturb this pretty home scene, as he did at his entrance; but notwithstanding, Cuthbert was very well satisfied with the bright surprise and shy pleasure, which one at least of the little group displayed, and took his place among them like an old friend. Violet’s copy-book lay open on the table; and Violet made very bad pot-hooks indeed, and hated the copy intensely, though she liked the poetry. The copy lines set for her were not very beautiful either, though they were written in a good, sensible, female hand, which had some individuality in it, and was not of the fashionable style. Such copy lines! stray lines out of books, as diverse and miscellaneous as could be collected, differing most widely from those sublime, severe, abstract propositions, which in common cases introduce the youthful student to wisdom and half-text. Cuthbert could not help a visible smile as he glanced over them. “I have interrupted my little friend’s lesson,” said Charteris, as he laid down the book. Rose was shy of him. She did not answer. “Violet has a great appetite for verse,” said Martha, “we shall have all the rest of it at night.” “Triermain.” Cuthbert was a little surprised that the child should be so far advanced--innocent Cuthbert! he did not know what a host of books, of all kinds and classes, the little Violet had devoured already. “How is Mr. Muir?” asked Cuthbert. “I heard at the office he was not at home, and I was very glad to find that he was able for travelling. Have you heard from him? How is he?” “He is getting strong rapidly, Agnes writes,” said Martha. “They are with my uncle in Ayr. We were brought up there, all of us, and so we say Harry has gone home. I hope it will strengthen him--every way,” she added, with a suppressed sigh. “And so you like Sir Walter, Violet,” said Cuthbert; “come and tell me what you have read besides Triermain.” Violet came shyly to his side, and drooped her head, and answered with bashfulness, “I have read them a’.” “Read them all! not quite, I think--how many books have you read, altogether?” said the puzzled Cuthbert.