Winsome took a step towards her as if with some purpose of indignant chastisement.  But the red head and twinkling eyes of mischief vanished, and Winsome stood with the paper in her hand.  Just as she had begun to smooth out the crinkles produced by the hands of Manse Bell who could not read it, Saunders who would not, and Meg Kissock who had not time to read it, the head of the last named was once more projected into the room, looking round the edge of the rose-papered door.

“Ye’ll mak’ a braw mistress o’ the manse, Mistress—­Ralph—­ Peden!” she said, nodding her head after each proper name.

CHAPTER X.

The love-song of the mavis.

Winsome stamped her little foot in real anger now, and crumpling the paper in her hand she threw it indignantly on the floor.  She was about to say something to Meg, but that erratic and privileged domestic was in her own room by this time at the top of the house, with the door barred.

But something like tears stood in Winsome’s eyes.  She was very angry indeed.  She would speak to Meg in the morning.  She was mistress of the house, and not to be treated as a child.  Meg should have her warning to leave at the term.  It was ridiculous the way that she had taken to speaking to her lately.  It was clear that she had been allowing her far too great liberties.  It did not occur to Winsome Charteris that Meg had been accustomed to tease her in something like this manner about every man under forty who had come to Craig Ronald on any pretext whatever—­from young Johnnie Dusticoat, the son of the wholesale meal-miller from Dumfries, to Agnew Greatorix, eldest son of the Lady Elizabeth, who came over from the castle with books for her grandmother rather oftener than might be absolutely necessary, and who, though a papist, had waited for Winsome three Sabbath days at the door of the Marrow kirk, a building which he had never previously entered during his life.

Winsome went indignant to bed.  It was altogether too aggravating that Meg should take on so, she said to herself.

“Of course I do not care a button,” she said as she turned her hot cheek upon the pillow and looked towards the pale gray-blue of the window-panes, in which there was already the promise of the morning; though yet it was hardly midnight of the short midsummer of the north.

“It would be too ridiculous to suppose that I should care for anybody whom I have only seen twice.  Why, it was more than a year before I really cared for dear old grannie!  Meg might know better, and it is very silly of her to say things like that.  I shall send back his book and paper to-morrow morning by Andrew Kissock when he goes to school.”  Still even after this resolution she lay sleepless.