"What!" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical attitude--"an apothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a pestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before me." "Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!" said his mother, as she rose and left the room in a passion; "ye'll be a play-actor yet, an' that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'." Peter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the villagers expressed it, "a sort o' money." He had a family of several children, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same age as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter; they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion; for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row, reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper, runner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a long yarn, and, over a glass of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a man; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards him, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat. His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire soul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed up in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over her fair brow; but Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely face, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost sculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the shining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before; and he knew not wherefore.