“I thought that subject was tabooed between us, Wilks?”

“Oh no, my dear fellow, I have no objection to the sex in a Platonic way.”

“Dad, but it wasn’t very platonic you looked when the pretty widow was fastening that button hole for you.  Was she talking about her daughter at the schools?”

“Not a word; she did not even hint that she had a daughter.  She must have been very young when the doctor married her.”

“Well, that’s one thing we have to thank that howling cad of a Grinstun man for.  I’m real sorry I missed having a chat with Saul about the catechism.”

“What is that!” So the lawyer related his conversation with Marjorie, and Wilkinson said, “Really, Corrie, as an educationist, I must say you do wrong to encourage such pertness in so young a child.”

“Pertness is it?  It’s nature’s own cleverness in the sweet little lass.  Wilks, I’d give a good deal to have that little sunbeam or one like her with me all the time.”

“Adopt one,” suggested the schoolmaster.

“Adopt one,” replied the lawyer with a bitter laugh, “adopt one for Mrs. Marsh to look after?  No, when I’ve a house of my own and a good housekeeper, and more time to spend on a child, I’ll think over the hint.”

The pair tramped steadily on, though the sun was hot, for there was a pleasant breeze, and the scenery became bolder and more picturesque.  They came to rising ground, at the foot of which lay a fertile valley, and beyond it the Blue Mountains.  Gazing across at them, the dominie exclaimed:—­

                       Yon azure ridge,
     Is it a perishable cloud—­or there
     Do we behold the frame of Erin’s coast?

“No, Wilks, no!  Erin’s away on the confines of Wellington and Peel, and we are on those of Simcoe and Grey.”

“Slight man, did you not perceive that I quoted poetry, and that the allusion is to your native isle?”

“Faith.  I wish the real Erin was over there; it’s the old lady would be in my arms as fast as I could run across.  But this place deserves a song, so here goes:—­

Though down in yonder valley
The mist is like a sea,
Though the sun be scarcely risen,
There’s light enough for me. 
For, be it early morning,
Or be it late at night,
Cheerily ring our footsteps,

        Right, left, right.

We wander by the woodland
That hangs upon the hill;
Hark! the cock is tuning
His morning clarion shrill;
And hurriedly awaking
From his nest amid the spray,
Cheerily now, the blackbird,
Whistling, greets the day. 

        For be it early morning, etc.

We gaze upon the streamlet,
As o’er the bridge we lean;
We watch its hurried ripples
We mark its golden green. 
Oh, the men of the north are stalwart,
And the norland lasses fair;
And cheerily breathes around us
The bracing norland air. 
We smoke our black old meerschaums,
We smoke from morn till night,
While cheerily ring our footsteps,
Right, left, right.”