"Oh, then--with a gentleman like your comrade, Mr. Drogue--l'amour n'est qu'une maladie légère qui se guérira sans médecin, n'est-ce pas?" "Say that in Canada and doubtless the very dicky-birds will answer wee-wee-wee!" he retorted. "But if you mean, does John Drogue mate below his proper caste, then there's no wee-wee-wee about it; for that the Laird of Northesk will never do!" "I know that," said she coolly. And opened the pot to fork the steaming stew, then set on the cover and passed her hand over her brow where a slight dew glistened and where her hair curled paler gold and tighter, like a child's. "Friend Nick?" "I hear thee, breeder of heart-troubles." "Listen, then. No thought of me should trouble any man as yet. My heart is not awake--not troublesome,--not engaged,--no, not even to poor Stephen Watts. For the sentiment I entertain for him is only pity for a boy, Nick, who is impetuous and rash and has been too much flattered by the world.... Poor lad--in his play-hour regimentals!--and no beard on his smooth cheek.... Just a fretful, idle, and self-indulgent boy!... Who protests that he loves me.... Oh, no, Nick! Men sometimes bewilder me; but I think it is our own passion that destroys us women--not theirs.... And there is none in me,--only pity, and a great friendliness to men.... And these only have ever moved me." He was sitting on a pine table and munching of a cruller. "Penelope," says he, "your honesty and wholesome spirit should physic men of their meaner passions. If you are servant to Douw Fonda, nevertheless you think like a great lady. And I for one," he added, munching away, "shall quarrel with any man who makes little of the mistress of Summer House Point!" And then--oh, Lord!--she turns from her oven, takes his silly head between both hands, and gives him a smack on the lips! "There," says she, "you have had of your sister what you never should have had of the Scottish lass of Caughnawaga!" He got off the table at that, looking mighty pleased but sheepish, and muttered something concerning relieving me on post. And so, lest I should be disgraced by my eavesdropping, and feeling mean and degraded, yet oddly contented that Penelope loved no man with secret passion, I slunk away, my moccasins making no sound. So when Nick came to relieve me he discovered me still on post; and said he pettishly: "Penelope Grant hath clouted me, mind and body; and I am the better man by it, though somewhat sore; and I shall knock the head of any popinjay who fails in the respect all owe this girl. And I wish to God I had a hickory stick here, and Sir John Johnson across my knee!" I went into my chamber and laid me down on my trundle bed. I was contented. I no longer seemed to burn for the girl. Also, I knew she burned for no man. A vast sense of relief spread over me like a soft garment, warming and soothing me. And so, pleasantly passed my sick passion for the Scottish girl; and pleasantly I fell asleep. CHAPTER XXIII