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“In her ear he whispers gaily,

“If my heart by sighs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily

And I think thou lovest me well.”

“She replies in accents fainter,

There is none I love like thee,
He is but a landscape painter,

And a village maiden she.”


PATRICK HAY was so far fortunate in his double nature, inadvertently and unconsciously it produced some stray results of Machiavellian or Chesterfield policy; his exterior did not appear too deep for the world to penetrate, or too free from folly for it to



censure, and a repressed but unconquerable boyish geniality awoke truer and kindlier springs in the public heart than those of mere vanity. Then his inner earnestness, which only the few could comprehend or prize, was left for them to ponder over.

With a few exceptions, such as Mrs. George Cunningham, conquering the consequences of his promotion, he was soon acceptable in every set in Craiginch; more than Mary Mackay did homage to him as essentially a gentleman, like the wool-stapler's son of Stratford, he was in truth more refined in what constitutes real refinement, than his better born contemporaries. If the Hunters and Mackays, and even Mr. Millar owned his power of rendering himself agreeable, how could Phemie Millar help going farther; she who penetrated the pleasant surface and guessed the deep, unsounded waters beneath, and from the first he distinguished her by particular attention, he sought her out wherever they met, he lingered beside her, he lowered his voice and þent his head to address her. Gratitude, that vanity which was a portion of Patrick Hay's organization and pique as well as sympathy, admiration and liking, combined to lead him on.

There was no such mixture of motives in Phemie's attachment, even in its first flickering light it was pure love. Here he was at last the hero of her early dreams, the sympathizer, the guide; and she did not give him her faith in measure.

With a girl like Phemie Millar, a mere fancy flight was perilous, but love itself was a very virulent disease, indeed all particular esteem or admiration was soon lost in the general current setting in to the circling whirlpool, Patrick Hay. It was Patrick Hay Phemie loved, not the artist; and loving at all, she loved him entirely, she loved his low extraction, she loved his occasional levity, his absurd fancy caps, and outré coats as well, perhaps better than, his latent enthusiasm and bursts of energy.

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