“Oh, ay, as auld as him or me--in your ain conceit,” said Bell; “but whisht, my bonnie doo-- I wasna meaning to vex you. And what am I to speak to Sir Ludovic about?” A slight embarrassment came over Margaret. She began to fidget from one foot to another, and a sudden wave of color flushed over her face. It did not mean anything. Was it not the trouble of her life that she blushed perpetually--blushed for nothing at all, with every fresh thought that rushed upon her, with every new impulse? It was her way of showing every emotion. Nevertheless this time it made her feel uncomfortable, as if it might mean something more. “I told you,” she said; “it is about learning to draw, and about letting him come here to show me the way.” “Letting _him_ come! that’s another story; and who’s him?” said Bell. She made a rapid mental review of the county while she spoke--puzzled, yet not disconcerted; there was nobody of whom the severest duenna could be afraid. There was Sir Claude--known to be very fond of pictures--but Sir Claude was a douce married man, who was very unlikely to take the trouble, and, even if he did, would hurt nobody. “Na, I canna think. Young Randal Burnside he’s away; that was the only lad in the country-side like to be evened to our Miss Margret, and him no half or quarter good enough. Na, ye maun tell me; there’s no _him_ in the country that may not come and go free for anything I care.” “Why should you care?” said Margaret. “But I will tell you who it is. It is Rob Glen--Mrs. Glen’s son, at Earl’s-lee. He used to play with me when I was little, and I saw him drawing a picture. And then he told me who he was, and then he said he would learn me to draw, if I liked to learn--and you may be sure I would like to learn, Bell. Fancy! to take a bit of paper out of a book, and put this house upon it or any other house, and all the woods, and the hills, and the sky. Look at that puff of cloud! it’s all rosy and like a flower; but in a moment it will be gray, and next moment it will be gone; but if you draw it you have it forever. It’s wonderful, wonderful, Bell!” “Rob Glen,” said Bell, musing. She paid no attention to Margaret’s poetical outburst. “Rob Glen--that’s him that was to be a minister; but something’s happened to him; he’s no conductit himself as he ought, or else he tired of the notion, and he’s at hame doing naething.” Bell paused after this historical sketch. “He wasna an ill laddie. He was very good to you, Miss Margret, when you were but a little troublesome thing, greeting for drinks of water, and asking to be carried, and wanting this and wanting that, just what puts a body wild with bairns.” “Was I?” said Margaret, with wide-opened eyes. “No! Rob never thought me a trouble. You might do so,” she added, with offence. “I cannot tell for you, but I am sure Rob--”