bindings she had seen, were those of a few old annuals up at the
house--and were they not full of the most lovely tales and pictures?
In this case, however, her expectation was not vain; for the volume
was, as I have already disclosed, Coleridge's Poems.

Seeing her eyes fixed upon the book--"Would you like to read it?"
said he.

"If you please, sir," answered Margaret, her eyes brightening with
the expectation of deliglit.

"Are you fond of poetry?"

Her face fell. The only poetry she knew was the Scotch Psalms and
Paraphrases, and such last-century verses as formed the chief part
of the selections in her school-books; for this was a very retired
parish, and the newer books had not yet reached its school. She had
hoped chiefly for tales.

"I dinna ken much about poetry," she answered, trying to speak
English. "There's an old book o't on my father's shelf; but the
letters o't are auld-fashioned, an' I dinna care aboot it."

"But this is quite easy to read, and very beautiful," said Hugh.

The girl's eyes glistened for a moment, and this was all her reply.

"Would you like to read it?" resumed Hugh, seeing no further answer
was on the road.