‘Now that ye speak of it, those were the very things he wore.’

’It’d be the black mare he was riding, nae doubt; he’ll have tied her to the gate in the lane.’  Or again:  ’Was it in the best parlour that ye saw him the day?  He’d be drinking tea wi’ my mither.’

‘That he was; and she smiling tae him over the dish of tea.’

’Ay, he looks fine and handsome, bowing to my mither in the best parlour, Jeanie Trim.  Did ye notice if he wore silk stockings?’

‘Fine silk stockings he wore.’

‘And his green coat?’

‘As green and smart as a bottle when ye polish, it with a cloth.’

’Did ye notice the fine frills that he has to his shirt?  I’ve tried to make my father’s shirts look as fine, but they never have the same look.’  The hands of the old dame would work nervously, as if eager to get at the goffering-irons and try once more.  ‘An’ he’d lay his hat on the floor beside him; it’s a way he has.  Did my mither tell him that I was ailing?  His eyes would be shining the while.  Do ye notice how his eyes shine, Jeanie?’

‘Ay, do I; his eyes shine and his hair curls.’

‘Ye’re mistaken there, his hair doesna curl, Jeanie Trim—­ye’ve no’ obsairved rightly; his hair is brown and straight; it’s his beard and whiskers that curl.  Eh! but they’re bonny!  There’s a colour and shine in the curl that minds me of the lights I can see in the old copper kettle when my mither has it scoured and hung up on the nail; but his hair is plain brown.’

‘He’s a graun’ figure of a man!’ cried the blithe maid, ever sympathetic.

‘Tuts!  What are ye saying, Jeanie!  He’s no’ a great size at all; the shortest of my brithers is bigger than him!  Ye might even ca’ him a wee man; it’s the spirit that he has wi’ it that I like.’

Thus, by degrees, touch upon touch, the portrait of Kinnaird was painted, and whatever misconceptions they might form of him were corrected one by one.  There was little incident depicted, yet the figure of Kinnaird was never drawn passive, but always in action.

‘Did my father no’ offer to send him home in the spring-cart?  It’s sair wet for him to be walking in the wind and the rain the day.’  Or:  ’He had a fine bloom on his cheeks, I’ll warrant, when he came in through this morning’s bluster of wind.’  Or again:  ’He’ll be riding to the hunt with my father to-day; have they put their pink coats on, Jeanie Trim?’

The relations between Kinnaird and the father and mother appeared to be indefinite rather than unfriendly.  There were times, it is true, when he came round by the dairy and gave private messages to Jeanie Trim, but at other times he figured as one of the ordinary guests of a large and hospitable household.  No special honour seemed to be paid him; there was always the apprehension in the love-sick girl’s heart that such timely attentions as the offer of proper refreshment or of the use of the spring-cart might be lacking.  The parents were never in the daughter’s confidence.  She always feared their interference.  There was no beginning to the story, no crisis, no culmination.