“You dinna ken how bonnie it is in the dark, Missie,” said the old man, “‘specially when there’s stars shining, that ye canna tell whether they’re in the water or the sky; and there was ance a fairy ring somegate about the steps yonder, and I’ve heard mony a ane say they had listened lang syne to sair groans out of that oak. They say ane o’ the lairds that planted it came by a violent death, and ye can aye hear’t make a moan and complaint, at the season of the year when he was killed; but I canna answer for that story--and I never heard the tree say a word mair than ony ither tree, a’ my days.” “But listen, Dragon,” said Lettie, covering her eyes: “if it was dark, I could think it was the rustling of Lady Violet’s gown.” “And it’s naething but the corn,” said Dragon, with a feeble laugh; “naething but the wind in the corn, and your ain fancy. Ay, but there is anither sound. What would ye say if it was Mailie in among Willie Hunter’s corn?” “I would get a wand, and drive her out again. I would like, Dragon--_is_ it her that’s in the corn?” cried Katie Calder. But Dragon looking over the hedge already bore testimony that it was not the brown cow, by greeting with great surprise his nephew Geordie. “I was just coming in bye to say a word to Mysie,” said the gruff voice of the labouring man. “Her mother’s ill yonder, and ane o’ the weans has a fever and the ither a hoast; be a decent body for ance, uncle, and cry her out to me--for I want to tell her she’s no to come hame at no hand, on account of the bairns at the house.” “I’ll rin,” said the active little Katie Calder. And Katie ran away through the trees, without waiting for permission. “I passed Allenders in his carriage the noo,” said Geordie. “He’ll hae siller o’ his ain, I reckon, mair than the lands? for it would take a grand fortune to keep up a’ yon.” “Ay, he’s a fine lad, Mr. Hairy,” said the old man, “and they’re a real biddable family, and dinna scorn guid advice wherever it comes frae; and then there’s the young lady, Miss Rose, ye ken, hasna made up her mind if she’s to be married on the doctor lad out of Stirling, or yon birkie in Edinburgh. I think she’s maist disposed to him--and I’ll warrant he’s a grand man, for he has it in his e’e--nae fear o’ Mr. Hairy, when he has a writer married on his ae sister, and sic a wise lady for his ither.” Poor Rose started--but, to do her justice, quite as much because Geordie’s remark had opened her eyes to a new danger for Harry, as because Dragon’s unhesitating disposal of herself dissipated with a light much too distinct and severe, the indefinite happiness of her dreams.