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‘And yet a ploughman’s daughter in a Scotch village: with that face—and that name!’

The young schoolmaster gave a sort of doubtful cough, the meaning of which the Colonel could not divine. ‘That is how she has been brought up,’ he said; ‘but you are perhaps not aware, sir, that many a wonderful character has come from a Scotch ploughman’s house. Not to speak of Burns, there was——’

‘Oh, I am aware the Scotch are a most superior nation,’ cried the Colonel, with a laugh.

‘That is just the simple truth,’ the young man said.

Meanwhile the recitations were going on, which perhaps were not equal in quality to the rest of Joyce’s arrangements. She was in extreme earnest about it all, it was evident to see, and eager that everything should produce the best effect. A few mothers, who had known what was going to happen, had gathered about, listening with proud delight yet anxiety lest they should break down, each to her own child. Among them was a little old woman, sunburnt and rosy as a winter apple, with an old-fashioned black bonnet tied down over her ears, and a huge Paisley shawl almost covering her dark cotton gown. ‘You think but of your own bairns,’ she was saying, ‘but I think of them a’; for it’s a’ my J’yce’s doing, and she will just break her heart if there’s any failure.’