"Elizabeth," or "Elspet," as she was indiscriminately called, cared
little about her reputation touching these important functions. She
could sing most of the wild legendary ballads of the time; her rich full
voice had in it a sadness ravishingly tender and expressive, more akin
to woe, and the deep untold agony of the spirit, than to lightness and
mirth, in which she rarely indulged.
"Give us one of thy ditties ere supper," said the dame, who was just
then laying aside her implements in the work-press. "I wonder thy father
does not return. The roofs of Bashall ring with louder cheer than our
own, I trow. He is playing truant for the nonce, which is dangerous play
at best."
"Is he now at our cousin Talbot's?" inquired the maiden, with a look of
more than ordinary interest.
"If he be not on the way back again," returned the dame, as though
wishful to repress inquiry.
"The woods are not safe so late and alone. Comes he alone, mother?"
"Alone! Ay,--and why spierest thou?" The dame looked wistfully, though
but for a moment, on her daughter; then changing her tone, as if to
recommend a change of subject, she cried--
"Come, ha' done, Elspet; we will wait no longer than grace be said.
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