Next morning, at the usual hour, Alison attended to one of her accustomed duties, the care of a flock of young turkeys, in a meadow by the farm. They were a late brood, and the object of Alison’s most anxious solicitude. This morning her mother had commanded her to put on a better gown than usual, and to place upon her curls a fine mob-cap of lace and cambric, whose flapping frills annoyed her. It was an antique piece of finery, belonging to her mother’s girlhood rather than to hers; but fashions at The Mains were not advanced. Alison’s looks were not thought greatly of by her parents. She lacked her mother’s brilliant colouring and bold, black-eyed beauty. She was rather pale, indeed, though with a healthy, even pallor that a touch of cold wind or a little exertion easily brightened into a pleasing softness of pink. Her hair, which would never grow beyond her shoulders for length, curled all about her ears and neck—tendrils borrowed from the stubborn, reddish locks of her father, only they were not red, but of a light, sunny brown. Her face had the calmness and strength of clear-cut features, and she was tall beyond the common, well and strongly made. Not an unpleasing figure at all was she, as she stood calling to her turkeys, the autumn sun catching at her hair, and shining in her grey eyes. Yet the hearts of her parents misgave them, as they saw her, lest she should fail to find favour in the eyes of Mr. Cheape of Kincarley. For Mr. Cheape had arrived, and, with laudable punctuality, had stumped into the library, where the laird, who had been talked round the night before into a temporary acquiescence in his suit, waited to receive him. To the pair, presently entered the lady of the house in her Sunday silk, and genteelest manners. A gruff nod to the laird, and a stiff inclination to his dame, was all the salutation vouchsafed by Mr. Cheape, who then stood hitting at his boots with the whip in his hand, and grunting at intervals. ’’Tis a fine morning for the time of the year, and grand for lifting the neeps,’ began the laird, with a cough. Mr. Cheape snorted. ’I’m not here,’ he remarked, with plainness, ’to discuss the weather and turnips. I’m come, ma’am, to be presented to your daughters;’ and he ignored the laird, and addressed himself to the lady. ’To my Daughter Alison, doubtless?’ said Mrs. Graham, with polite firmness. ’Hum,’ said Mr. Cheape, ’I understood there were seven of them.’ ’We are blessed with seven girls, indeed,’ said Mrs. Graham, majestically. ’But our daughter Alison is the only one from whom we could think of parting ourselves at this time. The rest’—coolly—’are bairns.’ ’I should like to see them all,’ objected the suitor, who felt himself being ’done.’