“I hope you are not angry,” said Margaret, humbly. “Bell always says whatever she pleases. She does not stand in awe of anybody--even my sister Jean, who is a grand lady--at least, I am sure she thinks she is very grand; but Bell never minds. You must not be angry, Mr. Glen.” “Angry! I am pleased. I like to feel myself a boy again; then too, if you will recollect, I had a beautiful little lady beside me, Miss Margaret, who would hold the rod sometimes and watch for a nibble.” “Don’t call me _that_” said Margaret, with momentary gravity. “Yes--a funny little girl in a sun-bonnet. How glad I used to be when you caught anything! It was not very often, Mr. Glen.” “Not at all often, Miss Margaret; and sometimes you would take off your little shoes, and dabble your little white feet in the water--how white they were! I remember thinking the fishes would bite just to get nearer, just to have a sight of them.” “Indeed the fishes were not so silly,” cried the girl, blushing, and half affronted, but too shy to venture on showing her offence. In such matters as this Rob’s gentleman-breeding failed him. He did not know in what he had gone wrong. “The sun is changing already,” she said, hurriedly; “have you got your shadows right, Mr. Glen? I think you will soon want the umbrella.” “Not yet,” he said; “I can work for another hour; but here is old John interfering with my foreground. Is this the ‘piece?’ It is not so simple as that you used to share with me on the burn-side.” “It is a picnic,” said Margaret, with a little awe, as John appeared, slowly progressing among the potatoes, with a white-covered tray. John’s approach was a solemnity under any circumstances, but across the long lines of potatoes it was still more imposing. “You’re to pit that on, Miss Margaret,” he said, after he had set down his burden, with a sigh of relief, handing to her the little gray jacket which he carried over his arm. “But it is not cold. I don’t want it, the sun is shining; and, John, will you bring the big umbrella, the great big one with the heavy handle, to shelter Mr. Glen?” “She said you were to pit it on. I maun finish one errant afore I begin anither,” said the old man. “She said there was a cauld air, and that you were to pit it on.” “I will when I am cold. Oh, tell Bell she has sent us a great deal too much. Chicken and cake, and white bread and cheese--and jam!” The last pleased the critic, and subdued her remonstrance. “But it is too much. I would like a little milk instead of the wine.” “She said the wine was better for ye,” said the old man; “and she said you were to pit _that_ on.” “Oh, John! you are worse, you are a great deal worse than Bell is. You never will hear any reason. She, if one speaks to her, one can make her see what is sense,” cried Margaret, half crying; “but you, you are a great deal worse--you are tyrannical!”