Kilmeny of the Orchard 
     
    
   
   
    
     ences to Neil. The idea of that handsome, 
     
     low-born boy seeing Kilmeny every day, 
     
     talking to her, sitting at the same table 
     
     with her, dwelling under the same roof, 
     
     meeting her in the hundred intimacies of 
     
     daily life, was distasteful to him, He put 
     
     the thought away from him, and flung 
     
     himself down on the long grass at her 
     
     feet. 
     
    

    
     “Now play for me, please,” he said. 
     
     “ I want to lie here and listen to you.” 
     
    

    
     “ And look at you,” he might have 
     
     added. He could not tell which was the 
     
     greater pleasure. Her beauty, more won- 
     
     derful than any pictured loveliness he had 
     
     ever seen, delighted him. Every tint and 
     
     curve and outline of her face was flawless. 
     
     Her music enthralled him. This child, he 
     
     told himself as he listened, had genius. 
     
     But it was being wholly wasted. He 
     
     found himself thinking resentfully of the 
     
     people who were her guardians, and who 
     
     were responsible for her strange life. 
     
     They had done her a great and irremedi— 
     
    

    
     168