"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie," little
Mary would say.

"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebody
was lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'
you."

"Now that'll do," the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gang
as far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another,
"dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too." At this the
guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more
than his share.

Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid
surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his
imagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place
for him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of great
future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his
body.

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at
play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playing
at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly
looking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already
the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every
dream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange
magnetic power of soul for soul was continually drawing them together,
even at this early age. No voice was like Mysie's voice, no name like
her name to him. If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a spare
piece of pencil Robert was happy; he'd gladly give her his only piece