He led me into another long room above, where a dry old lady sat at a frame of embroidery, and the three handsomest young women (I suppose) in Scotland stood together by a window.

“This is my new friend, Mr. Balfour,” said he, presenting me by the arm.  “David, here is my sister, Miss Grant, who is so good as keep my house for me, and will be very pleased if she can help you.  And here,” says he, turning to the three younger ladies, “here are my three braw dauchters.  A fair question to ye, Mr. Davie:  which of the three is the best favoured?  And I wager he will never have the impudence to propound honest Alan Ramsay’s answer!”

Hereupon all three, and the old Miss Grant as well, cried out against this sally, which (as I was acquainted with the verses he referred to) brought shame into my own cheek.  It seemed to me a citation unpardonable in a father, and I was amazed that these ladies could laugh even while they reproved, or made believe to.

Under cover of this mirth, Prestongrange got forth of the chamber, and I was left, like a fish upon dry land, in that very unsuitable society.  I could never deny, in looking back upon what followed, that I was eminently stockish; and I must say the ladies were well drilled to have so long a patience with me.  The aunt indeed sat close at her embroidery, only looking now and again and smiling; but the misses, and especially the eldest, who was besides the most handsome, paid me a score of attentions which I was very ill able to repay.  It was all in vain to tell myself I was a young fellow of some worth as well as good estate, and had no call to feel abashed before these lasses, the eldest not so much older than myself, and no one of them by any probability half as learned.  Reasoning would not change the fact; and there were times when the colour came into my face to think I was shaved that day for the first time.

The talk going, with all their endeavours, very heavily, the eldest took pity on my awkwardness, sat down to her instrument, of which she was a passed mistress, and entertained me for a while with playing and singing, both in the Scots and in the Italian manners; this put me more at my ease, and being reminded of Alan’s air that he had taught me in the hole near Carriden, I made so bold as to whistle a bar or two, and ask if she knew that.

She shook her head.  “I never heard a note of it,” said she.  “Whistle it all through.  And now once again,” she added, after I had done so.

Then she picked it out upon the keyboard, and (to my surprise) instantly enriched the same with well-sounding chords, and sang, as she played, with a very droll expression and broad accent: 

    “Haenae I got just the lilt of it? 
    Isnae this the tune that ye whustled?”

“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too, only it won’t rhyme.”  And then again: 

    “I am Miss Grant, sib to the Advocate: 
    You, I believe, are Dauvit Balfour.”