the foot of a tree, he spied a tiny primrose, peeping out of its rough, careful leaves; and he wondered how, by any metamorphosis, such leaves could pass into such a flower.  Had he seen the mother of the next spring-messenger he was about to meet, the same thought would have returned in another form.  For, next, as he passed on with the primrose in his hand, thinking it was almost cruel to pluck it, the Spring met him, as if in her own shape, in the person of Margaret, whom he spied a little way off, leaning against the stem of a Scotch fir, and looking up to its top swaying overhead in the first billows of the outburst ocean of life.  He went up to her with some shyness; for the presence of even a child-maiden was enough to make Sutherland shy—­partly from the fear of startling her shyness, as one feels when drawing near a couching fawn.  But she, when she heard his footsteps, dropped her eyes slowly from the tree-top, and, as if she were in her own sanctuary, waited his approach.  He said nothing at first, but offered her, instead of speech, the primrose he had just plucked, which she received with a smile of the eyes only, and the sweetest “thank you, sir,” he had ever heard.  But while she held the primrose in her hand, her eyes wandered to the book which, according to his custom, Sutherland had caught up as he left the house.  It was the only well-bound book in his possession; and the eyes of Margaret, not yet tutored by experience, naturally expected an entrancing page within such beautiful boards; for the gayest 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.

She held out her hand towards the volume.  When he, in his turn, held the volume towards her hand, she almost snatched it from him, and ran towards the house, without a word of thanks or leave-taking—­whether from eagerness, or doubt of the propriety of accepting the offer, Hugh could not conjecture.  He stood for some moments looking after her, and then retraced his steps towards the house.