“Well, mamma,” said one of the girls, “he is what the maids call a bonnie lad.” “And very like a gentleman,” said the other. They both gave a glance behind them as they spoke, not at all unwilling, if truth were told, to be overtaken by Rob Glen. “Jessie, Jessie, how often must I tell you not to be vulgar? There is nothing so vulgar as that broad Scotch,” cried the genteel farmer’s wife. She was more horrified than Sir Ludovic was with Margaret’s idioms and Fifish confusion of grammar; but the girls were not nearly so decided as to the folly of Mrs. Glen. They thought there was something to say on the other side. Margaret Leslie had no education; she had never been out of that old crow’s-nest of a house. She had never had masters for anything, or seen the world. Family was not everything, nor money either; and if there was a nice-looking, handsome, well-educated young man who did not mind her want of education-- Mrs. Cupar thought her own girls were almost as daft as Mrs. Glen. But there was another humble pedestrian coming after them, who was of the same opinion as the girls. Jeanie had seen Mrs. Glen and her son from a distance, but had not been seen by Rob, who had eyes only for Margaret, and, under the shade of her book, the poor girl had watched him, all unconscious of her observation. He had not been at church before since he returned to his mother’s house, and all his thoughts were bent, it seemed to Jeanie, upon the large, square, red-lined pew which held her master and Miss Margaret. Even if Margaret were not there, was it likely that he would have greeted her in the face of day--he, a gentleman, and she but a servant-lass? Jeanie felt the impossibility of the connection more than she had ever done before. She had seen nothing, indeed, that was impossible in it when she had gone to his uncle’s shop, or taken a Sunday walk with Rob out by Glasgow Green and upon the waterside. But here the reality of the matter burst upon her. She saw him walk past with Sir Ludovic leaning on his arm, while she hung back while “the kirk skaaled.” She saw him shake hands with Randal Burnside. And she was nothing but Bell’s helper, a servant-lass. Her father had been one of the elders who stood at the plate on this eventful day, and John Robertson understood the wistful look his daughter gave him when the service was over. “Ay, ay, he saw me weel enough--he could not help seeing me. He gave me a little nod as he passed, quite civil: but-- I would think na mair of such a whillie-wha,” said John.