"Well, Andrew, what is it?"

"When will you allow me to call for the verses?"

"In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my
mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father."

"I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry."

"You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not have
known."

"That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion."

"I will take care of that. My father knows that you are a hard-working
young man. There is not one of his farms in better order than yours.
Were it otherwise, I should not be so interested in your poetry."

Andrew wished her less interested in it. To have his verses read was
like having a finger poked in his eye. He had not known that his mother
looked at his papers. But he showed little sign of his annoyance, bade
the lady good-morning, and left the kitchen.

Miss Fordyce followed him to the door, and stood for a moment looking
out. In front of her was a paved court, surrounded with low buildings,
between two of which was visible, at the distance of a mile or so, a
railway line where it approached a viaduct. She heard the sound of a
coming train, and who in a country place will not stand to see one pass!