“Oh, indeed, delighted I’m sure,” said her ladyship, with a careless nod, which changed to surprised interest as Robert with simple, manly dignity removed his Tam O’Shanter and bowed low before the haughty beauty. “What an air for a peasant,” she mused. “What dignity,” and she surveyed him critically from the top of his head, with its black clustering locks which gleamed purple in the sunshine, to the tip of his rough leather brogans; noting with admiration his stalwart frame, the well-shaped head and massive neck, the strength suggested in the broad shoulders, the deep chest, the herculean limbs with the swelling muscles displayed to such advantage within the tightly fitting breeches of doe skin. “What a handsome creature,” she thought with a thrill of admiration, as she took the mental inventory of his good points. “And decidedly interesting, I’ll wager, if not dangerous,” she added, smiling contemplatively as she caught the look of respectful admiration which gleamed in his wonderfully magnetic eyes. “Oh, James,” she called languidly reëntering the room, “here is the young man who has so kindly assisted in repairing the coach—the young man who has just returned from Mauchline,” she added significantly. “Nay, your ladyship, ’tis my brother Gilbert you must thank for his assistance, not me,” replied Robert, flushing. As the deep tones of his sonorous voice fell on her ear she felt an indefinable thrill of emotion steal over her that startled her. She looked at him wonderingly. What peculiar magnetism was there in this farmer’s voice that could so easily move her, who had always prided herself on her coldness, her indifference to all men, including her husband, who was blissfully unconscious of his beautiful wife’s sentiments regarding him? “Your brother had no easy task, I fear, Mr. Burns,” remarked Lord Glencairn genially. Then he turned smilingly to Jean, who was standing impatiently in the doorway. “What have you been doing all this time, my dear Jean?” he asked lightly. “Ask Mr. Burns,” insinuated Lady Glencairn with an odd little smile at Jean’s embarrassed countenance. He looked inquiringly at the surprised face of the young farmer. “Miss Armour has done me the honor of listening to some of my rhyming,” quietly replied Robert with a quick glance at Jean, his ready wit coming to her rescue. “So then you are a poet,” murmured Lady Glencairn, with a smile. “Do you write love sonnets to your sweethearts, or does the muse incline at this season to songs of springtime?” “Aye, my lady, he has the gift indeed,” spoke up Mrs. Burns deprecatingly. “But I dinna’ ken if it amounts to aught.” “My mother doesna’ care for my poetry,” said Robert simply, turning to her ladyship. “Dinna’ say that, laddie,” replied his mother earnestly. “Ye ken I’m o’er fond of those verses to Highland Mary, but——”