"Oh," laughed Marget, "he’s jist like he aye was, oor laddie. His appetite and his heart were aye the biggest pairts o’ him. Eh, but I’m that glad tae see ye laddie, if ever I kissed ony that was o’ the male gender, it’s you I’d be kissing. Come on ben." They led me in, Marget holding my hand and beaming up into my face. "Wha ever wad hae thocht it, oor wee Jack," she kept saying proudly to Tammas. "Wheest," said Tammas, vainly trying to say one thing and mean another, "Wheest wumman, it’s Mr. Jack noo." For answer I stopped and looked at him with feigned pain, and Marget clapped her hands and laughed. "Where is Elsie?" I said, suddenly remembering. "Has she grown any?" I thought Tammas’s smile would spread over the rest of him when I asked for his granddaughter. "Has she grown any? My, my! Why listen, Jack, ’tis four years since you saw her—she was twelve then—our little lassie, and four years make a deal o’ difference in a lassie." "She has jist gane oot to the dairy to get some cream for breakfast," said Marget. "See, yonder she comes. Look an’ tell me if she’s the same," and Marget pointed with a smile. I saw a tall girl coming down the little path, carrying a pitcher of cream in one hand and twirling a Scotch sunbonnet in the other. Her dark red-brown hair fell in two school girl braids down her back. Her every line showed gentleness of breeding; and her beauty of face was really wonderful. "She’s jist pat on ane o’ her low necked morning gowns, an’ she’s that thin that they show ower muckle o’ her neck," said Marget apologetically. "She is lovely," I said; "you should have named her Annie Laurie," and I hummed the old song: "Her cheek is like the snow drift, Her neck is like the swan." "Dae ye really think she is that bonnie?" Tammas smiled, pleased that I should have compared her to Annie Laurie. "It is not exactly beauty so much, Tammas," I said; "it is something like royalty. She looks like some Greek nymph of the woods that has stepped out of a water lily." Marget was smiling at my praise. "Ay, but it’s jist as ye say, Jack," said Tammas. "Oor lassie looks that way." He stopped and his voice dropped. "An’ her bonnie mother, oor daughter,—it is that like her that Elsie is,—aye, the very twin star o’ oor ain bairn, Marget." "Look," said Marget, "dae you ken I canna mak her wear her shoes yet, when there’s nobody aboot, and the pools o’ the spring sae inviting. Look ye, if ever there was a child," and she laughed, pulling Tammas and me to the door to see better. Elsie had stopped, and sat down on the grass above the pool, her pitcher beside her, and was splashing her feet in the water. "She may be grown, Tammas, but she is the same child I’ve known always. I remember the funny little thing when she was two years old." "Three," corrected Marget, "that was when we took her after the passing of oor bonnie lassie." "And how she loved to follow me around like a kitten."