“I ... think so, sir.” “You are not sure, then?” “Ah, sir,” she sighed, “I be only a poor maid and you’m a grand gentleman like—like them as you druv’ away.” “Ha, d’ye think so, girl!” he exclaimed pettishly. “Confound me, but you are not flattering! Can you indeed think me of such base, material clay, Rose? Are you so addle-witted, so dense, so dull to suppose ’tis your pink-and-white prettiness lures me?” “La, no, your honour—indeed, no!” she answered humbly, her voice a little uncertain and her face hid beneath the laces of her mob-cap. “Though—though your honour do think I be—pretty?” she added questioningly. “Pretty?” he repeated scornfully. “Tush, child! What hath your prettiness to do with it? ’Tis your natural goodness draweth me, your fresh simplicity your purity and unstained innocence! I needs must reverence the white soul of you——” Here, Sir John chancing to look down and she to look up, their glances met and he was abruptly silent; wherefore she curtsied demurely an murmured: “Yes, your honour!” But Sir John was silent so long that she began to tap with fidgeting foot and to pleat a fold in her apron. “Rose,” said he at last, “look at me!” Her eyes were raised in instant obedience, eyes deep and dark and heavy-lashed, that met his keen scrutiny unwavering and wholly unabashed. “You laughed, I think?” he challenged. “Who—me, sir?” she cried, eyes wider than ever. “Do any women possess souls, I wonder!” said he bitterly. “Parson do think so, your honour.” “Then perchance you may find yours some day, for, until you do, child, you must remain and never know or appreciate the great, good things of life——” “Tripe an’ pig’s-trotters, John!” exclaimed Sir Hector, bursting in upon them, brandishing a long-handled fork. “Par-boiled, ye ken, an’ crisped in a brisk oven——” A rush of flying feet; the bang of closing door; a sound of stifled, hysterical laughter. “Losh, man Jack,” exclaimed Sir Hector, staring into his companion’s scowling visage, “was yon that Rose creature?” “Yon was!” answered Sir John grimly. “And what then, Hector?” “Umph-humph!” snorted General Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean. “Pray, Hector, what might you mean?” “Supper, John! Tripe an’ pig’s-trotters—aye, an’ cooked by my ain hand, whateffer—the smell o’ yon wad mak’ Lucullus watter i’ the mou’! Sae dinna froon, lad, but come an’ eat!” CHAPTER V THE ALLURE OF SIMPLICITY: MOONLIGHT AND AN ELOPEMENT