“I used to think ilka bonny lassie bude to be a poetess--for hoo sud she be bonnie but by the informin’ hermony o’ her bein’?--an’ what’s that but the poetry o’ _the_ Poet, the Makar, as they ca’d a poet i’ the auld Scots tongue?--but haith! I ken better an’ waur noo! There’s gane the twa bonniest _I_ ever saw, an’ I s’ lay my heid there’s mair poetry in auld man-faced Miss Horn nor in a dizzin like them. Ech! but it’s some sair to bide. It’s sair upon a man to see a bonny wuman ’at has nae poetry, nae inward lichtsome hermony in her. But it’s dooms sairer yet to come upo’ ane wantin’ cowmon sense! Saw onybody ever sic a gran’ sicht as my Leddy Clementina! --an’ wha can say but she’s weel named frae the hert oot?--as guid at the hert, I’ll sweir, as at the een! but eh me! to hear the blether o’ nonsense ’at comes oot atween thae twa bonny yetts o’ music--an’ a’ cause she winna gi’e her hert rist an’ time eneuch to grow bigger, but maun aye be settin’ a’ things richt afore their time, an’ her ain fitness for the job! It’s sic a faithless kin’ o’ a w’y that! I could jist fancy I saw her gaein’ a’ roon’ the trees o’ a simmer nicht, pittin’ hiney upo’ the peers an’ the peaches, ’cause she cudna lippen to natur’ to ripe them sweet eneuch --only ’at she wad never tak the hiney frae the bees. She’s jist the pictur o’ Natur’ hersel’ turnt some dementit. I cud jist fancy I saw her gaein’ aboot amo’ the ripe corn, on sic a nicht as this o’ the mune, happin’ ’t frae the frost. An’ I s’ warran’ no ae mesh in oor nets wad she lea’ ohn clippit open gien the twine had a herrin’ by the gills. She’s e’en sae pitifu’ owre the sinner ’at she winna gi’e him a chance o’ growin’ better. I won’er gien she believes ’at there’s ae great thoucht abune a’, an’ aneth a’, an’ roon’ a’, an’ in a’thing. She cudna be in sic a mist o’ benevolence and parritch-hertitness gien she cud lippen till a wiser. It’s nae won’er she kens naething aboot poetry but the meeserable sids an’ sawdist an’ leavin’s the gran’ leddies sing an’ ca’ sangs! Nae mair is ’t ony won’er she sud tak me for dementit, gien she h’ard what I was singin’! only I canna think she did that, for I was but croonin’ till mysel’.”--Malcolm was wrong there, for he was singing out loud and clear.--“That was but a kin’ o’ an unknown tongue atween Him an’ me an’ no anither.” CHAPTER XLI. THE SWIFT. Florimel succeeded so far in reassuring her friend as to the safety if not sanity of her groom, that she made no objection to yet another reading from “St Ronan’s Well”--upon which occasion an incident occurred that did far more to reassure her than all the attestations of his mistress.