So in the corner of the byre, among the fragrant hay and fresh-cut clover, Jess Kissock the cottar’s lass prophesied out of her wayward soul, baring her intentions to herself as perhaps her sister in boudoir hushed and perfumed might not have done.  There are Ishmaels also among women, whose hand is against every woman, and who stand for their own rights to the man on whom they have set their love; and the strange thing is, that such are by no means the worst of women either.

Stranger still, so strong and dividing to soul and marrow is a clearly defined purpose and determinately selfish, that such women do not often fail.  And indeed Jess Kissock, sitting in the hay-neuk, with her candle in the lantern throwing patterns on the cobwebby walls from the tiny perforations all round, made a perfectly correct prophecy.  Ralph Peden did indeed kiss her, and that of his own free will as his love of loves within a much shorter space of time than a year.

Strangely also, Jess the gipsy, the dark-browed Pictess, was neither angry nor jealous when she read Ralph’s letter to Winsome.  According to all rules she ought to have been.  She even tried to persuade herself that she was.  But the sight of Ralph writing to Winsome gave no pang to her heart.  Nor did this argue that she did not love really and passionately.  She did; but Jess had in her the Napoleon instinct.  She loved obstacles.  So thus it was what she communed with herself, sitting with her hand on her brow, and her swarthy tangle of hair falling all about her face.  All women have a pose in which they look best.  Jess looked best leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.  Had there been a fender at her father’s fireside Jess would have often sat on it, for there is a dangerous species of girl that, like a cat, looks best sitting on a fender.  And such a girl is always aware of the circumstance.

“He has written to Winsome,” Jess communed with herself.  “Well, he shall write to me.  He loves her, he thinks; then in time he shall love me, and be sure perfectly o’t.  Let me see.  Gin she had gotten this letter, she wadna hae answered it.  So he’ll come the morn, an’ he’ll no say a word to her aboot the letter.  Na, he’ll juist look if she’s pleased like, and gin that gomeral Saunders gied him the rose, he’ll no be ill to please eyther!  But afore he gangs hame he shall see Jess Kissock, an’ hear frae her aboot the young man frae the Castle!” Jess took another look at the letter.”  It’s a bonny hand o’ write,” she said, “but Dominie Cairnochan learned me to write as weel as onybody, an’ some day he’ll write to me.  I’se no be byre lass a’ my life.  Certes no.  There’s oor Meg, noo; she’ll mairry some ignorant landward man, an’ leeve a’ her life in a cot hoose, wi’ a dizzen weans tum’lin’ aboot her!  What yin canna learn, anither can,” continued Jess.  “I hae listened to graun’ fowk speakin’, an’ I can speak as weel as onybody.  I’ll disgrace nane.  Gin I canna mak’ mysel’ fit for kirk or manse, my name’s no Jess Kissock.  I’m nae country lump, to be left where I’m set doon, like a milkin’ creepie [stool], an’ kickit ower when they are dune wi’ me.”