Then the choosing began. Betsy Dan, claiming first choice by virtue of her sex, immediately called out, “Ranald Macdonald.” But Ranald shook his head. “I cannot leave the fire,” he said, blushing; “take Don there.” But Betsy demurred. “I don't want Don,” she cried. “Come on, Ranald; the fire will do quite well.” Betsy, as indeed did most of the school-girls, adored Ranald in her secret heart, though she scorned to show it. But Ranald still refused, till Don said, “It is too bad, Betsy, but you'll have to take me.” “Oh, come on, then!” laughed Betsy; “you will be better than nobody.” Then it was Johnnie the Widow's choice: “Maimie St. Clair.” Maimie hesitated and looked at her aunt, who said, “Yes, go, my dear, if you would like.” “Marget Aird!” cried Betsy, spying Marget and her brothers coming down the road. “Come along, Marget; you are on my side--on Don's side, I mean.” At which poor Marget, a tall, fair girl, with sweet face and shy manner, blushed furiously, but, after greeting the minister's wife and the rest of the older people, she took her place beside Don. The choosing went on till every one present was taken, not even Aunt Kirsty being allowed to remain neutral in the coming games. For an hour the sports went on. Racing, jumping, bear, London bridge, crack the whip, and lastly, forfeits. Meantime Ranald superintended the sap-boiling, keeping on the opposite side of the fire from the ladies, and answering in monosyllables any questions addressed to him. But when it was time to make the tea, Mrs. Cameron and Kirsty insisted on taking charge of this, and Mrs. Murray, coming round to Ranald, said: “Now, Ranald, I came to learn all about sugar-making, and while the others are making tea, I want you to teach me how to make sugar.” Ranald gladly agreed to show her all he knew. He had been feeling awkward and miserable in the noisy crowd, but especially in the presence of Maimie. He had not forgotten the smile of amusement with which she had greeted him at the manse, and his wounded pride longed for an opportunity to pour upon her the vials of his contempt. But somehow, in her presence, contempt would not arise within him, and he was driven into wretched silence and self-abasement. It was, therefore, with peculiar gratitude that he turned to Mrs. Murray as to one who both understood and trusted him. “I thank you for the books, Mrs. Murray,” he began, in a low, hurried voice. “They are just wonderful. That Rob Roy and Ivanhoe, oh! they are the grand books.” His face was fairly blazing with enthusiasm. “I never knew there were such books at all.” “I am very glad you like them, Ranald,” said Mrs. Murray, in tones of warm sympathy, “and I shall give you as many as you like.” “I cannot thank you enough. I have not the words,” said the boy, looking as if he might fall down at her feet. Mrs. Murray was greatly touched both by his enthusiasm and his gratitude.