Robert, on the other hand, spent a week nursing his injured foot, but apart from the week’s idle time, he suffered very little.  He felt sore at losing the race, but was able now to look upon it as an unfortunate accident.  But that smile which he had seen on the face of Mysie made him strangely happy, and it helped him to get over his disappointment.  He was impatient to be out upon the moor again.  He would wait for Mysie some night, he concluded, and tell her calmly that he wanted her to marry him.

His mother’s prospects were fairly good now.  The youngest boy would soon be working; besides, two other brothers were at work, while Jennie, his eldest sister, was in service, and Annie, the younger one, was helping in the house.  He waited, night after night, after his injured foot was better—­lingering on the moor by the path which Mysie must travel.  He lay among the heather and read books, or dreamed of a rosy future, with her the center of his dreams; but no Mysie came along, and he began to grow anxious.

He wanted to make enquiries about her, but feared to arouse suspicion of having too keen an interest in her.  By various ways he sought information, but never heard anything definite.

“I see Matthew Maitland’s ither lassie has started on the pit-head,” he said to his mother, as one night they sat by the fire before retiring.

“Ay,” answered Mrs. Sinclair.  “Matthew has the worst o’ it by noo.  Wi’ his twa bits o’ laddies workin’, an’ Mysie in service, an’ Mary gaun to the pit-head, it should mak’ his burden a wee easier.”

“I dinna like the idea o’ lasses gaun to work on the pithead,” he said simply.  “I aye mind of the time that Mysie an’ me wrocht on it.  It’s no’ a very nice place for lasses or women.”

“No,” his mother said.  “I dinna like it either.  Nae guid ever comes o’ lasses gaun there.  They lose a’ sense o’ modesty an’ decency, after a while, an’ are no’ like women at a’ when they grow aulder.  Besides, it mak’s them awfu’ coorse.”

“I wad hardly say that aboot them a’,” he ventured cautiously.  “Mysie’s no’ coorse, an’ she worked on the pithead.”

“No, Mysie’s no’ coorse,” admitted his mother; “but Mysie didna work very lang on the pit-head.  An’ forby, we dinna ken but what Mysie micht hae been better if she had never been near it, or worse if she had stayed langer.  Just look at Susan Morton, an’ that Mag Lindsay.  What are they but shameless lumps who dinna ken what modesty is?” and there was a spark of the old scorn in her voice as she finished.

“Oh, but I wadna gang as faur as you, mither,” he said, “wi’ your condemnations.  I ken that baith Susan Morton an’ Mag Lindsay are guid-hearted women.  They may be coarse in their talk, an’ a’ that sort o’ thing; but they are as kind-hearted as onybody else, an’ kinder than some.”

“Oh; I hae nae doot,” she answered relentingly.  “I didna mean that at a’; but the pit-head doesna make them ony better, an’ it’s no’ wark for them at a’.”