"Jock Forrest was leading and they were cutting down the croft very steadily. I think it looks like sixty bushels to the acre," she continued practically; "so you shall have a carpet for the study this year, if all goes well." "That will be famous!" cried Ralph, like a schoolboy, waving his hand. It paused among Winsome's hair. "I wish you would not tumble it all down," she said; "I am too old for that kind of thing now!" The number of times good women perjure themselves is almost unbelievable. But the recording angel has, it is said, a deaf side, otherwise he would need an ink-eraser. Ralph knew very well what she really meant, and continued to throw the fine-spun glossy waves over her head, as a miser may toss his gold for the pleasure of the cool, crisp touch. "Then," continued Winsome, without moving (for, though so unhappy and uncomfortable, she sat still--some women are born with a genius for martyrdom), "then I had a long talk with Meg." "And the babe?" queried Ralph, letting her hair run through his fingers. "And the babe," said Winsome; "she had laid it to sleep under a stock, and when we went to see, it looked so sweet under the narrow arch of the corn! Then it looked up with big wondering eyes. I believe he thought the inside of the stook was as high as a temple." "It is not I that am the poet!" said Ralph, transferring his attention for a moment from her hair. "Meg says Jock Forrest is perfectly good to her, and that she would not change her man for all Greatorix Castle." "Does Jock make a good grieve?" asked Ralph. "The very best; he is a great comfort to me," replied his wife. "I get far more time to work at the children's things--and also to look after my Ursa Major!" "What of Jess?" asked Ralph; "did Meg say?" "Jess has taken the Lady Elizabeth to call on My Lord at Bowhill! What do you think of that? And she leads Agnew Greatorix about like a lamb, or rather like a sheep. He gets just one glass of sherry at dinner," said Winsome, who loved a spice of gossip--as who does not? "There is a letter from my father this morning," said Ralph, half turning to pick it off his desk; "he is well, but he is in distress, he says, because he got his pocket picked of his handkerchief while standing gazing in at a shop window wherein books were displayed for sale, but John Bairdieson has sewed another in at the time of writing. They had a repeating tune the other day, and the two new licentiates are godly lads, and turning out a credit to the kirk of the Marrow." "And that is more than ever you would have done, Ralph," said his wife candidly.