"Ah, well, dinna greet for her, my doo," said Marion, sympathetically. "She was a good woman, na doubt, and gane to a better place. Lass, your room looks fine, with all these pictures and little things about it. I ay like a young lass to be neat and dainty. I think you and I will 'gree very well." CHAPTER XI. _"THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP."_ IN the course of a few days Marion produced her book, which turned out to be a fine edition of Robertson's history of Scotland, a very charming book, though strongly partisan, as is the case with most readable histories. Rhoda found it as interesting as a novel, and Marion was equally pleased. "Lass, never mind the things," she would say on ironing days, when it was Rhoda's business to help her. "I can do your share as well as my own. Get your book and read." Then Rhoda would get out Robertson and read aloud for hours while Marion, with marvellous dexterity, ironed and pleated and did two hours' work in the time of one. She listened to the clear, sounding periods with critical satisfaction, and made her odd remarks. She was a woman of fine mind; and though her schooling, as she called it, had not been long, she had always been a reader and a thinker. "Eh, but that's grand!" said she, one day, as Rhoda closed the book. "He would have made a fine preacher, that doctor." "He was a preacher," answered Rhoda. "I remember reading about him in a book Flora Fairchild lent me. It said he had a colleague, and they did not agree about church discipline, but for all that they never had a quarrel. I should like to see his sermons. I never read such an interesting history. "But, Marion, Mr. Ferrand does not approve of young people reading history—I heard him read that out from the book he is writing; and I am sure he would not think well of my reading it. He said he would select some books suitable for me, and you ought to see them. Such silly little stories, all about wicked servant-girls that wore pink ribbons, and went straight to destruction in consequence, and about good labourers that were contented on ten shillings a week, and wicked labourers that wanted more. Do people really live on ten shillings a week over there, Marion?" "Ay, do they, and far less than that," said Marion. "Ten shilling a week would be high wages in our parts, and it's called very good, even in England." "But what do they live on?" "Aweel, they don't see much of butcher's meat or tea and coffee, ye may guess. If they get kirnmilk—that's buttermilk—for their porridge, and butter for their potatoes, they ay think themselves well off. But come, lass, help me with the vegetables, or I shall be late with my dinner, and yon man's as petted as a bairn if his dinner is behindhand a minute. He behooves to please his own palate, let what will become of his daughter." "He isn't stingy, either," said Rhoda.