'
'Weel, it's a queer instructor o' yowth, 'at says an' onsays i' the
same breith.'
'Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' yet; for I hae said
naething. But, Robert, my man, ye maun pit mair sowl into yer
fiddlin'. Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar 't greit. It's
unco ready to that o' 'ts ain sel'; an' it's my opingon that there's
no anither instrument but the fiddle fit to play the Flooers o' the
Forest upo', for that very rizzon, in a' his Maijesty's
dominions.--My father playt the fiddle, but no like your
gran'father.'
Robert was silent. He spent the whole of the next morning in
reiterated attempts to alter his style of playing the air in
question, but in vain--as far at least as any satisfaction to
himself was the result. He laid the instrument down in despair, and
sat for an hour disconsolate upon the bedside. His visit had not as
yet been at all so fertile in pleasure as he had anticipated. He
could not fly his kite; he could not walk; he had lost his shoes;
Mr. Lammie had not approved of his playing; and, although he had his
will of the fiddle, he could not get his will out of it. He could
never play so as to please Miss St. John. Nothing but manly pride
kept him from crying. He was sorely disappointed and dissatisfied;
and the world might be dreary even at Bodyfauld.
Few men can wait upon the bright day in the midst of the dull one.
Nor can many men even wait for it.
CHAPTER XX.
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