Are ye finished, Mhor?
Weel, wipe yer feet and gang ben to the room an' let me get on wi' ma work." Pamela, feeling herself dismissed, took her guest back to the sitting-room, where Mhor at once began to examine the books piled on the table, while Peter sat himself on the rug to await developments.
"You've a lot of books," said Mhor.

"I've a lot of books too--as many as a hundred, perhaps.

Jean teaches me poetry.

Would you like me to say some ?" "Please," said Pamela, expecting to hear some childish rhymes.

Mhor took a long breath and began: "'O take me to the Mountain O, Past the great pines and through the wood, Up where the lean hounds softly go, A whine for wild things' blood, And madly flies the dappled roe.
O God, to shout and speed them there An arrow by my chestnut hair Drawn tight, and one keen glittering spear-- Ah, if I could!'" For some reason best known to himself Mhor was very sparing of breath when he repeated poetry, making one breath last so long that the end of the verse was reached in a breathless whisper--in this instance very effective.
"So that is what 'Jean' teaches you," said Pamela.