softened. "He has neither father nor mother, puir lamb, but I must say
Miss Jean never lets him ken the want o' them."

"Miss Jean?"

"He bides at The Rigs wi' the Jardines--juist next door here. She's no a
bad lassie, Miss Jean, and wonderfu' sensible considerin'.... Are ye
finished, Mhor? Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me
get on wi' ma work."

Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the
sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the
table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.

"You've a lot of books," said Mhor. "I've a lot of books too--as many as
a hundred, perhaps. Jean teaches me poetry. Would you like me to say
some?"

"Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes. Mhor took
a long breath and began:

"'O take me to the Mountain O,
Past the great pines and through the wood,
Up where the lean hounds softly go,
A whine for wild things' blood,
And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there
An arrow by my chestnut hair
Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear--
Ah, if I could!'"