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diff --git a/old/60455-0.txt b/old/60455-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 526699a..0000000 --- a/old/60455-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10627 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Highland Mary, by Clayton Mackenzie Legge - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Highland Mary - The Romance of a Poet - -Author: Clayton Mackenzie Legge - -Illustrator: William Kirkpatrick - -Release Date: October 8, 2019 [EBook #60455] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIGHLAND MARY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - -HIGHLAND MARY - - - - -[Illustration: “Highland Mary.”] - - - - - HIGHLAND - MARY - - The Romance of a Poet - - A - NOVEL - - By - CLAYTON MACKENZIE LEGGE - - Illustrated by - WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK - - [Illustration] - - 1906 - C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON - - Copyright, 1906. - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., - Boston, Mass. - - Entered at - Stationer’s Hall, London. - - Dramatic and all other - RIGHTS RESERVED. - - - - - TO - - THE REV. DR. DONALD SAGE MACKAY, D.D., - - _Pastor of the Collegiate Church_, - - NEW YORK CITY. - - I RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE THIS BOOK - - - - -FOREWORD - - -With apologies to Dame History for having taken liberties with some of -her famous characters, I would ask the Reader to remember that this story -is fiction and not history. - -I have made use of some of the most romantic episodes in the life of -Robert Burns, such as his courtship of Mary Campbell and his love affair -with Jean Armour, “the Belle of Mauchline,” and many of the historical -references and details are authentic. - -But my chief purpose in using these incidents was to make “Highland Mary” -as picturesque, lovable and interesting a character in Fiction as she has -always been in the History of Scotland. - - CLAYTON MACKENZIE LEGGE. - - - - -HIGHLAND MARY - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -In the “but” or living-room (as it was termed in Scotland) of a little -whitewashed thatched cottage near Auld Ayr in the land of the Doon, sat a -quiet, sedate trio of persons consisting of two men and a woman. She who -sat at the wheel busily engaged in spinning was the mistress of the cot, -a matronly, middle-aged woman in peasant’s cap and ’kerchief. - -The other two occupants of the room for years had been inseparable -companions and cronies, and when not at the village inn could be found -sitting by the fireside of one of their neighbors, smoking their pipes -in blissful laziness. And all Ayrshire tolerated and even welcomed Tam -O’Shanter and his cronie, “Souter Johnny.” - -Tam was an Ayrshire farmer, considered fairly well-to-do in the -neighborhood, while Souter (shoemaker) Johnny was the village cobbler, -who seldom, if ever, worked at his trade nowadays. All the afternoon -had they sat by the open fireplace, with its roomy, projecting chimney, -watching the peat burn, seldom speaking, smoking their old smelly pipes, -and sighing contentedly as the warmth penetrated their old bones. - -Mrs. Burns glanced at her uninvited guests occasionally with no approving -eye. If they must inflict their presence on her, why couldn’t they talk, -say something, tell her some of the news, the gossip of the village? she -thought angrily; their everlasting silence had grown very monotonous to -the good dame. She wished they would go. It was nearing supper time, and -Gilbert would soon be in from the field, and she knew that he did not -approve of the two old cronies hanging around monopolizing the fireplace -to the exclusion of everyone else, and she did not want any hard words -between them and Gilbert. Suddenly with a final whirl she fastened the -end of the yarn she was spinning, and getting up from her seat set the -wheel back against the whitewashed wall. - -Then going to the old deal dresser, she took from one of the drawers a -white cloth and spread it smoothly over the table, then from the rack, -which hung above it, she took the old blue dishes and quickly set the -table for their evening meal. At these preparations for supper the -old cronies looked eagerly expectant, for none knew better than they -the excellence of the Widow Burns’ cooking, and a look of pleasant -anticipation stole over their sober faces as they perceived the platter -of scones on the table ready to be placed on the hot slab of stone in the -fireplace. - -Knocking the ashes from his pipe, Tam rose unsteadily to his feet, and -standing with his back to the fire, he admiringly watched the widow as -she bustled to and fro from table to dresser. “Ah, Mistress Burns, ye’re -a fine housekeeper,” he remarked admiringly. “An’ ye’re a fine cook.” - -Mrs. Burns turned on him sharply. “So is your guidwife,” she said -shortly, glancing out through the low, deep, square window to where her -second son could be seen crossing the field to the house. She hoped he -would take the hint and go. - -“Aye, Mistress, I ken ye’re recht,” replied Tam, meekly, with a dismal -sigh. “But it’s a sorry bet o’ supper I’ll be gang hame to this night, -an’ ye ken it’s a long journey, too, Mistress Burns,” he insinuated slyly. - -“Sure it’s a lang, weary journey, Tam,” said Souter Johnny, -commiseratingly. “But think o’ the warm welcome ye’ll be haein’ when ye -meet your guidwife at the door,” and a malicious twinkle gleamed in his -kindly but keen old eyes. - -“How is your guidwife, Tam O’Shanter?” inquired Mistress Burns, as she -placed some scones on the hot hearthstone to bake. - -“She’s a maist unco woman, Mistress,” replied Tam sorrowfully. “There’s -no livin’ wi’ her o’ late. She’s no a help or comfort to a mon at a’!” -he whined. Here Tam got a delicious whiff of the baking scones, and his -mouth as well as his eyes watered as he continued pathetically, “If -she could only cook like ye, Mistress. Oh, ’twas a sorry day for Tam -O’Shanter when he took such a scoldin’ beldame for wife,” and Tam sat -down, the picture of abject distress. - -Souter regarded his cronie with a grim smile. He had no pity for Tam, nor -for any man, in fact, who would not or could not rule his own household. -(Souter, by the by, had remained a bachelor.) However, he did his best to -console Tam whenever his marital troubles were discussed. - -“Never mind, Tam,” he said sympathetically, helping himself to a scone -while Mistress Burns’ back was turned. “Ye ken where ye can find all the -comfort and consolation ye can hold, if ye hae the tippence.” - -Tam wiped away a tear (tears came easily to the old tyke in his constant -state of semi-intoxication) and gave a deep, prolonged sigh. “Aye, -Souter, an’ I feel mair at home in the Inn than I do with my guidwife,” -he answered mournfully. “I dinna mind telling ye, she’s driven me to the -Deil himsel’, by her daur looks an’ ways. The only friend I hae left is -Old John Barleycorn,” and he wailed in maudlin despair. - -“He’s your best enemy, ye mean,” retorted Souter dryly, relighting his -pipe, after having demolished, with evident relish, the last of his -stolen scone. - -“Waesucks, mon,” he continued, assuming the tone of Dominie Daddy Auld, -who had tried in vain to convert the two old sinners, much to their -amusement and inward elation. “Your guidwife told ye weel. Ye’re a -skellum, Tam, a blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,” and the old -rogue looked slyly at Mistress Burns to note the effect of his harangue. - -“Aye, ye’re right, Souter Johnny,” said the good dame, nodding approval -to him, and going up to Tam, who was still sitting groaning by the -fireside, she shook him vigorously by the shoulder. “Stop your groaning -and grunting, ye old tyke, and listen to me,” she said sharply. “Take -your friend’s advice and gi’ old John Barleycorn a wide berth.” Here her -voice dropped to a whisper, “or some day ye’ll be catched wi’ warlocks in -the mire, Tam O’Shanter.” He stopped his noise and straightened up in his -chair. - -“Aye, and ghosties and witches will come yelpin’ after ye as ye pass -the auld haunted kirk at Alloway,” added Souter sepulchrally, leaning -over Tam with fixed eyes and hand outstretched, clutching spasmodically -at imaginary objects floating before Tam’s suspicious, angry eyes. Tam, -however, was not to be so easily frightened, and brushing Souter aside, -he jumped to his feet. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye preach to me, mon,” he -roared menacingly. “Ye hae no reght. Let Daddy Auld do that! I dinna fear -the witches or ghosties, not I.” He staggered to the window and pointed -to an old white horse standing meekly by the roadside. - -“Do ye see any auld faithful Maggie standin’ out there?” he cried -triumphantly. Not waiting for their answer, he continued proudly, -“Nae witches can catch Tam O’Shanter when he’s astride his auld mare’s -back, whether he is drunk or sober,” and he glared defiantly at his -listeners. At that moment the door from the “ben” opened, and Gilbert -Burns entered the room. An angry frown wrinkled his forehead as his gaze -fell upon the two old cronies. A hard worker himself, he could not abide -laziness or shiftlessness in another. He strode swiftly up to Tam, who -had suddenly lost his defiant attitude, but before he could speak the -bitter, impatient words which rushed to his lips, his mother, knowing his -uncertain temper, shook her head at him remonstratingly. “Ah, lad, I’m -fair ye hae come in to rest a while, an’ to hae a bit o’ supper,” she -hurriedly said. “Set ye doon. I hae some scones for ye, an’ Mollie has -some rabbit stew. Noo gie me your bonnet and coat, laddie,” and taking -them from him she hung them on the peg behind the door, while Gilbert -with a look of disgust at the two old cronies sat down and proceeded to -butter his scones in moody silence. Tam and Souter, however, did not -appear in any wise abashed, and perceiving they were not to be invited to -eat with Gilbert, they resumed their seats each side of the fireplace and -heaved a disconsolate sigh. - -Mrs. Burns, who had left the room for a moment, now entered bearing a -large bowl of the steaming stew, which she set before her son, while -directly after her appeared old Mollie Dunn, the half-witted household -drudge. The time was when Mollie had been the swiftest mail carrier -between Dumfries and Mauchline, but she was now content to have a home -with the Burns family, where, if the twinges of rheumatism assailed her, -she could rest her bones until relief came. She now stood, a pleased grin -on her ugly face, watching Gilbert as he helped himself to a generous -portion of the stew which she had proudly prepared for the evening meal. - -“Molly,” said her mistress sharply, “dinna ye stand there idle; fetch me -some hot water frae the pot.” - -Molly got a pan from the rack and hurried to the fireplace, where Tam was -relighting his pipe with a blazing ember, for the dozenth time. Molly had -no love for Tam, and finding him in her way, she calmly gave a quick pull -to his plaidie, and Tam, who was in a crouching position, fell backward, -sprawling on the hearth in a decidedly undignified attitude. With the -roar of a wounded lion, he scrambled to his feet, with the assistance -of Souter, and shaking his fist at the laughing Molly, he sputtered -indignantly, “Is the Deil himsel’ in ye, Molly Dunn? Ye’re an impudent -hussy, that’s what ye are.” Molly glared at him defiantly for a moment, -then calmly proceeded to fill her pan with hot water, while the old man, -bursting with indignation, staggered over to the dresser where Mistress -Burns was brewing some tea. - -“Mistress Burns,” he remonstrated almost tearfully, “ye should teach -your servants better manners. Molly Dunn is a——” but he never finished -his sentence, for Molly, hurrying back with the hot water, ran into him -and, whether by design or accident it was never known, spilled the hot -contents of the pan over Tam’s shins, whereupon he gave what resembled -a burlesque imitation of a Highland fling to the accompaniment of roars -of pain and anger from himself and guffaws of laughter from Souter and -Molly. Even Mrs. Burns and Gilbert could not resist a smile at the antics -of the old tyke. - -“Toots, mon,” said Molly, not at all abashed at the mischief she had -done, “ye’re no hurt; ye’ll get mair than that at hame, I’m tellin’ ye,” -and she nodded her head sagely. - -“Molly, hold your tongue,” said Mistress Burns reprovingly, then she -turned to Tam. “I hope ye’re nae burnt bad.” But Tam was very angry, and -turning to Souter he cried wrathfully, “I’m gang hame, Souter Johnny. -I’ll no stay here to be insulted; I’m gang hame.” And he started for the -door. - -“Dinna mind Molly; she’s daft like,” replied Souter in a soothing voice. -“Come and sit doon,” and he tried to pull him toward the fireplace, but -Tam was not to be pacified. His dignity had been outraged. - -“Nay, nay, Souter, I thank ye!” he said firmly. “An’ ye, too, Mistress -Burns, for your kind invitation to stay langer,” she looked at him -quickly, then gave a little sniff, “but I ken when I’m insulted,” and -disengaging himself from Souter’s restraining hand, he started for the -door once more. - -“An’ where will ye be gang at this hour, Tam?” insinuated Souter slyly. -“Ye ken your guidwife’s temper.” - -“I’m gang over to the Inn,” replied Tam defiantly, with his hand on the -open door. “Will ye gang alang wi’ me, Souter? A wee droppie will cheer -us both,” he continued persuasively. - -Souter looked anxiously at Gilbert’s stern, frowning face, then back to -Tam. “I’d like to amazin’ weel, Tam,” he replied in a plaintive tone, -“but ye see——” - -“Johnny has promised me he’ll keep sober till plantin’ is over,” -interrupted Gilbert firmly; “after that he can do as he likes.” - -“Ye should both be ashamed o’ yoursel’s drinkin’ that vile whisky,” said -Mrs. Burns angrily, and she clacked her lips in disgust. “It is your -worst enemy, I’m tellin’ ye.” - -“Ye mind, Mistress Burns,” replied Souter, winking his left eye at Tam, -“ye mind the Scriptures say, ‘Love your enemies.’ Weel, we’re just tryin’ -to obey the Scriptures, eh, Tam?” - -“Aye, Souter,” answered Tam with drunken gravity, “I always obey the -Scriptures.” - -“Here, mon, drink a cup of tea before ye gang awa’,” said Mrs. Burns, and -she took him a brimming cup of the delicious beverage, thinking it might -assuage his thirst for something stronger. Tam majestically waved it away. - -“Nay, I thank ye, Mistress Burns, I’ll no’ deprive ye of it,” he answered -with extreme condescension. “Tea doesno’ agree with Tam O’Shanter.” He -pushed open the door. “I’m off to the Inn, where the _tea_ is more to my -likin’. Guid-day to ye all,” and, slamming the door behind him, he called -Maggie to his side, and jumping astride her old back galloped speedily -toward the village Inn. The last heard of him that day was his voice -lustily singing “The Campbells Are Coming.” - -After he left the room Mistress Burns handed Souter the cup of tea -she had poured for Tam, and soon the silence was unbroken save by an -occasional sigh from the old tyke as he sipped his tea. - -Presently Gilbert set down his empty cup, rose and donned his coat. “Here -we are drinking tea, afternoon tea, as if we were of the quality,” he -observed sarcastically, “instead of being out in the fields plowing the -soil; there’s much to be done ere sundown.” - -“Weel, this suits me fine,” murmured Souter contentedly, draining his -cup. “I ken I was born to be one o’ the quality; work doesno’ agree wi’ -me, o’er weel,” and he snuggled closer in his chair. - -“Ye’re very much like my fine brother Robert in that respect,” answered -Gilbert bitterly, his face growing stern and cold. “But we want no -laggards here on Mossgiel. Farmers must work, an’ work hard, if they -would live.” He walked to the window and looked out over the untilled -ground with hard, angry eyes, and his heart filled with bitterness as -he thought of his elder brother. It had always fallen to him to finish -the many tasks his dreaming, thoughtless, erratic brother had left -unfinished, while the latter sought some sequestered spot where, with -pencil and paper in hand, he would idle away his time writing verses. And -for a year now Robert had been in Irvine, no doubt enjoying himself to -the full, while he, Gilbert, toiled and slaved at home to keep the poor -shelter over his dear ones. It was neither right nor just, he thought, -with an aching heart. - -“Ye ken, Gilbert,” said Souter Johnny, breaking in on his reverie, -“Robert wasna’ born to be a farmer. He always cared more, even when a wee -laddie, for writin’ poetry and dreamin’ o’ the lasses than toilin’ in the -fields, more’s the pity.” - -Mrs. Burns turned on him quickly. “Souter Johnny, dinna ye dare say a -word against Robert,” she flashed indignantly. “He could turn the best -furrough o’ any lad in these parts, ye ken that weel,” and Souter was -completely annihilated by the angry flash that gleamed in the mother’s -eye, and it was a very humble Souter that hesitatingly held out his cup -to her, hoping to change the subject. “Hae ye a wee droppie mair tea -there, Mistress Burns?” he meekly asked. - -Mrs. Burns was not to be mollified, however. “Aye, but not for ye, ye -skellum,” she answered shortly, taking the cup from him and putting it in -the dishpan. - -“Come along, Souter,” said Gilbert, going to the door. “We hae much to do -ere sundown and hae idled too long, noo. Come.” - -“Ye’re workin’ me too hard, Gilbert,” groaned Souter despairingly. “My -back is nigh broken; bide a wee, mon!” - -A sharp whistle from without checked Gilbert as he was about to reply. -“The Posty has stopped at the gate,” exclaimed Mistress Burns excitedly, -rushing to the window in time to see old Molly receive a letter from that -worthy, and then come running back to the house. Hurrying to the door, -she snatched it from the old servant’s hands and eagerly held it to the -light. Molly peered anxiously over her shoulder. - -“It’s frae Robbie,” she exclaimed delightedly. “Keep quiet, noo, till I -read it to the end.” As she finished, the tears of gladness rolled down -her smooth cheek. “Oh, Gilbert,” she said, a little catch in her voice, -“Robert is comin’ back to us. He’ll be here this day. Read it, lad, read -for yoursel’.” He took the letter and walked to the fireplace. After a -slight pause he read it. As she watched him she noticed with sudden -apprehension the look of anger that darkened his face. She had forgotten -the misunderstanding which had existed between the brothers since their -coming to Mossgiel to live, and suddenly her heart misgave her. - -“Gilbert lad,” she hesitatingly said as he finished the letter, “dinna -say aught to Robert when he comes hame about his rhyming, will ye, -laddie?” She paused and looked anxiously into his sullen face. “He canna -bear to be discouraged, ye ken,” and she took the letter from him and -put it in her bosom. Gilbert remained silent and moody, a heavy frown -wrinkling his brow. - -“Perhaps all thoughts of poesy has left him since he has been among -strangers,” continued the mother thoughtfully. “Ye ken he has been doin’ -right weel in Irvine; and it’s only because the flax dresser’s shop has -burned to the ground, and he canna work any more, that he decides to come -hame to help us noo. Ye ken that, Gilbert.” She laid her hand in tender -pleading on his sunburnt arm. - -“He always shirked his work before,” replied Gilbert bitterly, “and nae -doot he will again. But he maun work, an’ work hard, if he wants to stay -at Mossgiel. Nae more lyin’ around, scribblin’ on every piece of paper he -finds, a lot of nonsense, which willna’ put food in his mouth, nor clothe -his back.” Mrs. Burns sighed deeply and sank into the low stool beside -her spinning wheel, he hands folded for once idly in her lap, and gave -herself up to her disquieting thoughts. - -“Ye can talk all ye like,” exclaimed Souter, who was ever ready with his -advice, “but Robert is too smart a lad to stay here for lang. He was -never cut out for a farmer nae mair was I.” - -“A farmer,” repeated Mrs. Burns, with a mirthless little laugh. “An’ what -is there in a farmer’s life to pay for all the hardships he endures?” -she asked bitterly. “The constant grindin’ an’ endless toil crushes all -the life out o’ one in the struggle for existence. Remember your father, -Gilbert,” and her voice broke at the flood of bitter recollection which -crowded her thoughts. - -“I have na forgotten him, mither,” replied Gilbert quietly. “Nor am I -likely to, for my ain lot in life is nae better.” And pulling his cap -down over his eyes, he went back to the window and gazed moodily out -over the bare, rocky, profitless farm which must be made to yield them -a living. There was silence for a time, broken only by the regular -monotonous ticking of the old clock. After a time Mrs. Burns quietly left -the room. - -“Oh, laddie,” whispered Souter as the door closed behind her, coming up -beside Gilbert, “did ye hear the news that Tam O’Shanter brought frae -Mauchline?” - -“Do you mean about Robert an’ some lassie there?” inquired Gilbert -indifferently, after a brief pause. - -“Aye!” returned Souter impressively, “but she’s nae common lass, Gilbert. -She’s Squire Armour’s daughter Jean, called the Belle of Mauchline.” - -“I ken it’s no serious,” replied Gilbert sarcastically, “for ye ken -Robert’s heart is like a tinder box, that flares up at the first whisper -of passion,” and he turned away from the window and started for the door. - -“I canna’ understand,” reflected Souter, “how the lad could forget his -sweetheart, Highland Mary, long enough to take up wi any ither lassie. -They were mighty fond o’ each ither before he went awa’ a year ago. I can -swear to that,” and he smiled reminiscently. - -A look of despair swept over Gilbert’s face at the idle words of the -garrulous old man. He leaned heavily against the door, for there was a -dull, aching pain at his heart of which he was physically conscious. -For a few moments he stood there with white drawn face, trying hard -to realize the bitter truth, that at last the day had come, as he had -feared it must come, when he must step aside for the prodigal brother -who would now claim his sweetheart. And she would go to him so gladly, -he knew, without a single thought of his loneliness or his sorrow. But -she was not to blame. It was only right that she should now be with her -sweetheart, that he must say farewell to those blissful walks along -the banks of the Doon which for almost a year he had enjoyed with Mary -by his side. His stern, tense lips relaxed, and a faint smile softened -his rugged features. How happy he had been in his fool’s paradise. But -he loved her so dearly that he had been content just to be with her, -to listen to the sweetness of her voice as she prattled innocently and -lovingly of her absent sweetheart. A snore from Souter, who had fallen -asleep in his chair, roused him from the fond reverie into which he had -fallen, and brought him back to earth with a start. With a bitter smile -he told himself he had no right to complain. If he had allowed himself to -fall in love with his brother’s betrothed, he alone was to blame, and he -must suffer the consequence. Suddenly a wild thought entered his brain. -Suppose—and his heart almost stopped beating at the thought—suppose -Robert had grown to love someone else, while away, even better than he -did Mary? He had heard rumors of Robert’s many amourous escapades in -Mauchline; then perhaps Mary would again turn to him for comfort. His -eyes shone with renewed hope and his heart was several degrees lighter as -he left the house. Going to the high knoll back of the cottage, he gazed -eagerly, longingly, across the moor to where, in the hazy distance, the -lofty turrets of Castle Montgomery, the home of the winsome dairymaid, -Mary Campbell, reared their heads toward the blue heavens. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - Ye banks and braes and streams around - The Castle of Montgomery, - Green be your woods and fair your flowers, - Your waters never drumlie, - There summer first unfolds her robes, - And there the langest tarry, - For there I took the last farewell - O’ my sweet Highland Mary. - - -At the foot of the hill on which stood Castle Montgomery flowed the River -Doon, winding and twisting itself through richly wooded scenery on its -way to Ayr Bay. On the hillside of the stream stood the old stone dairy, -covered with ivy and shaded by overhanging willows. Within its cool, -shady walls the merry lassies sang at their duties, with hearts as light -and carefree as the birds that flew about the open door. Their duties -over for the day, they had returned to their quarters in the long, low -wing of the castle, and silence reigned supreme over the place, save for -the trickling of the Doon splashing over the stones as it wended its -tuneful way to join the waters of the Ayr. - -Suddenly the silence was broken; borne on the evening breeze came the -sound of a sweet, high voice singing: - - “Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone,” - -sang the sweet singer, plaintively from the hilltop. Nearer and nearer -it approached as the owner followed the winding path down to the river’s -bank. Suddenly the drooping willows were parted, and there looked out the -fairest face surely that mortal eyes had ever seen. - -About sixteen years of age, with ringlets of flaxen hair flowing -unconfined to her waist, laughing blue eyes, bewitchingly overarched by -dark eyebrows, a rosebud mouth, now parted in song, between two rounded -dimpled cheeks, such was the bonnie face of Mary Campbell, known to all -around as “Highland Mary.” Removing her plaidie, which hung gracefully -from one shoulder, she spread it on the mossy bank, and, casting herself -down full length upon it, her head pillowed in her hand, she finished -her song, lazily, dreamily, letting it die out, slowly, softly floating -into nothingness. Then for a moment she gave herself up to the mere joy -of living, watching the leaves as they fell noiselessly into the stream -and were carried away, away until they were lost to vision. Gradually her -thoughts became more centered. That particular spot was full of sweet -memories to her. It was here, she mused dreamily, that she and Robert had -parted a year ago. It was here on the banks of the Doon they so often had -met and courted and loved, and here it was they had stood hand in hand -and plighted their troth, while the murmuring stream seemed to whisper -softly, “For eternity, for all eternity.” And here in this sequestered -spot, on that second Sunday of May, they had spent the day in taking a -last farewell. Would she ever forget it? Oh, the pain of that parting! -Her eyes filled with tears at the recollection of her past misery. But -she brushed them quickly away with a corner of her scarf. He had promised -to send for her when he was getting along well, and she had been waiting -day after day for that summons, full of faith in his word. For had he not -said as he pressed her to his heart: - - “I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, - I hae sworn by the heavens to be true. - And so may the heavens forget me, - When I forget my vow.” - -A whole year had passed. She had saved all her little earnings, and now -her box was nearly filled with the linen which she had spun and woven -with her own fair hands, for she did not mean to come dowerless to her -husband. In a few months, so he had written in his last letter, he would -send for her to come to him, and they would start for the new country, -America, where gold could be picked up in the streets (so she had heard -it said). They could not help but prosper, and so the child mused on -happily. The sudden blast of a horn interrupted her sweet day dreams, -and, hastily jumping to her feet, with a little ejaculation of dismay -she tossed her plaidie over her back, and, filling her pail from the -brook, swung it lightly to her strong young shoulder. - - “An’ it’s o’ in my heart, I wish him safe at home,” - -she trilled longingly, as she retraced her steps up the winding path, -over the hill, and back to the kitchen, where, after giving the pail into -the hand of Bess, the good-natured cook, she leaned against the lintel -of the door, her hands shading her wistful eyes, and gazed long and -earnestly off to where the sun was sinking behind the horizon in far-off -Irvine. So wrapped was she in her thoughts she failed to hear the whistle -of Rory Cam, the Posty, and the bustle and confusion which his coming had -created within the kitchen. The sharp little shrieks and ejaculations of -surprise and delight, however, caused her to turn her head inquiringly. -Looking through the open door, she saw Bess in the center of a gaping -crowd of servants, reading a letter, the contents of which had evoked -the delight of her listeners. “An’ he’ll be here this day,” cried Bess -loudly, folding her letter. “Where’s Mary Campbell?” she demanded, -looking around the room. - -“Here I am, Bess,” said Mary, standing shyly at the door. - -“Hae ye heard the news, then, lassie?” asked Bess, grinning broadly. - -“Nay; what news?” inquired Mary, wondering why they all looked at her so -knowingly. - -“I’ve just had word frae my sister in Irvine, an’ she said——” Here Bess -paused impressively. “She said that Rob Burns was burnt out o’ his place, -an’ that he would be comin’ hame to-day.” Bess, who had good-naturedly -wished to surprise Mary, was quite startled to see her turn as white as -a lily and stagger back against the door with a little gasp of startled -surprise. - -“Are ye sure, Bess?” she faltered, her voice shaking with eagerness. - -“It’s true as Gospel, lassie; I’ll read ye the letter,” and Bess started -to take it out, but with a cry of joy Mary rushed through the door like a -startled fawn, and before the astonished maids could catch their breath -she had lightly vaulted over the hedge and was flying down the hill and -over the moor toward Mossgiel farm with the speed of a swallow, her -golden hair floating behind her like a cloud of glorious sunshine. On, -on she sped, swift as the wind, and soon Mossgiel loomed up in the near -distance. Not stopping for breath, she soon reached the door, and without -pausing to knock burst into the room. - -Mrs. Burns had put the house in order and, with a clean ’kerchief and cap -on, sat patiently at her wheel, waiting for Robert to come home, while -Souter quietly sat in the corner winding a ball of yarn from the skein -which hung over the back of the chair, and looking decidedly sheepish. -When Mary burst in the door so unceremoniously they both jumped -expectantly to their feet, thinking surely it was Robert. - -“Why, Mary lass, is it ye?” said Mrs. Burns in surprise. “Whatever brings -ye over the day? not but we are glad to have ye,” she added hospitably. - -“Where is he, Mistress Burns, where’s Robbie?” she panted excitedly, her -heart in her voice. - -“He isna’ here yet, lassie,” replied Mrs. Burns, with a sigh. “But sit ye -doon. Take off your plaidie and wait for him. There’s a girlie,” and she -pushed the unresisting girl into a chair. - -“Ye’re sure he isna’ here, Mistress Burns?” asked Mary wistfully, looking -around the room with eager, searching eyes. - -“Aye, lassie,” she replied, smiling; “if he were he wouldna’ be hidin’ -from ye, dearie, and after a year of absence, too. But I ken he will -be here soon noo.” And she went to the window and looked anxiously out -across the moor. - -“It seems so lang since he left Mossgiel, doesna’ it, Mistress Burns?” -said Mary with a deep sigh of disappointment. - -“An’ weel ye might say that,” replied Mrs. Burns. “For who doesna’ miss -my laddie,” and she tossed her head proudly. “There isna’ another like -Robbie in all Ayrshire. A bright, honest, upright, pure-minded lad, whom -any mither might be proud of. I hope he’ll return to us the same laddie -he was when he went awa’.” The anxious look returned to her comely face. - -An odd little smile appeared about the corners of Souter’s mouth as he -resumed his work. - -“Weel, noo, Mistress Burns,” he asked dryly, “do ye expect a healthy lad -to be out in this sinful world an’ not learn a few things he didna ken -before? ’Tis only human nature,” continued the old rogue, “an’ ye can -learn a deal in a year, mind that, an’ that reminds me o’ a good joke. -Sandy MacPherson——” - -“Souter Johnny, ye keep your stories to yoursel’,” interrupted Mrs. Burns -with a frown. Souter’s stories were not always discreet. - -“Irvine and Mauchline are very gay towns,” continued Souter -reminiscently. “They say some of the prettiest gurls of Scotlan’ live -there, an’ I hear they all love Robbie Burns, too,” he added slyly, -looking at Mary out of the corner of his eye. - -“They couldna help it,” replied Mary sweetly. - -“An’ ye’re nae jealous, Mary?” he inquired in a surprised tone, turning -to look into the flushed, shy face beside him. - -“Jealous of Robert?” echoed Mary, opening her innocent eyes to their -widest. “Nay! for I ken he loves me better than any other lassie in the -world.” And she added naïvely, “He has told me so ofttimes.” - -“Ye needna fear, Mary,” replied Mrs. Burns, resuming her place at the -wheel. “I’ll hae no ither lass but ye for my daughter, depend on’t.” - -“Thank ye, Mistress Burns,” said Mary brightly. “I ken I’m only a simple -country lass, but I mean to learn all I can, so that when he becomes a -great man he’ll no be ashamed of me, for I ken he will be great some -day,” she continued, her eyes flashing, the color coming and going in -her cheek as she predicted the future of the lad she loved. “He’s a born -poet, Mistress Burns, and some day ye’ll be proud of your lad, for genius -such as Rabbie’s canna always be hid.” Mrs. Burns gazed at the young girl -in wonder. - -“Oh, if someone would only encourage him,” continued Mary earnestly, “for -I’m fair sure his heart is set on rhyming.” - -“I ne’er heard of a body ever makin’ money writin’ verses,” interposed -Souter, rubbing his chin reflectively with the ball of soft yarn. - -“Ah, me,” sighed Mrs. Burns, her hands idle for a moment, “I fear the -lad does but waste his time in such scribbling. Who is to hear it? Only -his friends, who are partial to him, of course, but who, alas, are as -puir as we are, and canna assist him in bringin’ them before the public. -The fire burns out for lack of fuel,” she continued slowly, watching the -flickering sparks die one by one in the fireplace. “So will his love -of writin’ when he sees how hopeless it all is.” She paused and sighed -deeply. “He maun do mair than write verses to keep a wife and family -from want,” she continued earnestly, and she looked sadly at Mary’s -downcast face. “And, Mary, ye too will hae to work, harder than ye hae -ever known, even as I have; so hard, dearie, that the heart grows sick -and weary and faint in the struggle to keep the walf awa’.” - -“I am no afraid of hard work,” answered Mary bravely, swallowing the -sympathetic tears which rose to her eyes. “If poverty is to be his -portion I shall na shrink from sharin’ it wi’ him,” and her eyes shone -with love and devotion. - -Mrs. Burns rose and put her arms lovingly about her. “God bless ye, -dearie,” she said softly, smoothing the tangled curls away from the broad -low brow with tender, caressing fingers. - -“Listen!” cried Mary, as the wail of the bagpipes was heard in the -distance. “’Tis old blind Donald,” and running to the window she threw -back the sash with a cry of delight. “Oh, how I love the music of the -pipes!” she murmured passionately, and her sweet voice vibrated with -feeling, for she thought of her home so far away in the Highlands and the -dear ones she had not seen for so long. - -“Isna he the merry one this day,” chuckled Souter, keeping time with his -feet and hands, not heeding the yarn, which had slipped from the chair, -and which was fast becoming entangled about his feet. - -“It’s fair inspirin’!” cried Mary, clapping her hands ecstatically. -“Doesna it take ye back to the Highlands, Souter?” she asked happily. - -“Aye, lassie,” replied Souter. “But it’s there among the hills and glens -that the music of the pipes is most entrancin’,” he added loyally, for -he was a true Highlander. The strains of the “Cock of the North” grew -louder and louder as old Donald drew near the farm, and Mary, who could -no longer restrain her joyous impulse, with a little excited laugh, her -face flushing rosily, ran to the center of the room, where, one hand on -her hip, her head tossed back, she began to dance. Her motion was harmony -itself as she gracefully swayed to and fro, darting here and there like -some elfin sprite, her bare feet twinkling like will-o’-the-wisps, so -quickly did they dart in and out from beneath her short plaid skirt. With -words of praise they both encouraged her to do her best. - -Louder and louder the old piper blew, quicker and quicker the feet of the -dancer sped, till, with a gasp of exhaustion, Mary sank panting into the -big armchair, feeling very warm and very tired, but very happy. - -“Ye dance bonnie, dearie, bonnie,” exclaimed Mrs. Burns delightedly, -pouring her a cup of tea, which Mary drank gratefully. - -“Oh, dearie me,” Mary said apologetically, putting down her empty cup, -“whatever came o’er me? I’m a gaucie wild thing this day, for true, but -I canna held dancin’ when I hear the pipes,” and she smiled bashfully -into the kind face bent over her. - -“Music affects me likewise,” replied Souter, trying to untangle the yarn -from around his feet, but only succeeding in making a bad matter worse. -“Music always goes to my feet like whusky, only whusky touches me here -first,” and he tapped his head humorously with his forefinger. - -“Souter Johnny, ye skellum!” cried Mrs. Burns, noticing for the first -time the mischief he had wrought. “Ye’re not worth your salt, ye -ne’er-do-weel. Ye’ve spoiled my yarn,” and she glared at the crestfallen -Souter with fire in her usually calm eye. - -“It was an accident, Mistress Burns,” stammered Souter, awkwardly -shifting his weight from one foot to the other in his efforts to free -himself from the persistent embrace of the clinging yarn. - -With no gentle hand Mrs. Burns shoved him into a chair and proceeded to -extricate his feet from the tangled web which held him prisoner. Soon she -freed the offending members and rose to her feet. “Noo gang awa’,” she -sputtered. “Ye’ve vexed me sair. Gang out and help Gilbert. I canna bide -ye round.” Souter took his Tam O’Shanter, which hung over the fireplace, -and ambled to the door. - -“Very weel,” he said meekly, “I’ll go. Souter Johnny can take a hint -as weel as the next mon,” and he closed the door gently behind him and -slowly wended his way across the field to where Gilbert was sitting, -dreamily looking across the moor. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -“Why doesna he come, Mistress Burns?” said Mary pathetically. They had -come down to the field where Gilbert was now at work the better to watch -for their loved one’s approach. “Twilight is comin’ on an’ ’tis a lang -walk to Castle Montgomery at night. I canna wait much langer noo.” - -“Never ye mind, lassie; ye shall stay the night with me,” replied Mrs. -Burns soothingly, “if Robert doesna come.” - -“I’ll take ye back, Mary,” said Gilbert eagerly, going up to her. Perhaps -Robert was not coming after all, he thought with wildly beating heart. - -“Thank ye, Gilbert, but I’ll wait a wee bit longer,” answered Mary -hopefully; “perhaps he’ll be here soon,” and she dejectedly dug her bare -toes into the damp earth. - -“Well, lassie, I canna waste any mair time,” said Mrs. Burns -energetically. “Ye can stay here with Gilbert, while I return to my -spinning. Come, Souter, there’s some firewood to be split,” and she -quickly walked to the house, followed more slowly by the reluctant Souter. - -Gilbert, with his soul in his eyes, feasted on the pathetic loveliness -of the sweet face beside him, gazing wistfully toward Mauchline, and his -aching heart yearned to clasp her to his breast, to tell her of his -love, to plead for her pity, her love, herself, for he felt he would -rather die than give her up to another. He drew closer to her. - -“What is the matter, Gilbert?” asked Mary anxiously, noting his pale -face. “Are ye in pain?” - -“Aye, Mary, in pain,” he answered passionately. “Such pain I’ll hope -ye’ll never know.” He bowed his head. - -“I’m so sorry, lad,” she replied innocently. “I wish I could help ye,” -and she looked compassionately at the suffering man. - -He raised his head suddenly and looked into her eyes. - -“Are ye goin’ to marry Robert this summer, when he returns?” he asked -abruptly, his voice husky with emotion. - -“Aye, if he wishes it,” answered Mary simply, wondering why he looked so -strangely white. - -“He has been gone a year, ye ken,” continued Gilbert hoarsely. “Suppose -he has changed and no langer loves ye?” She looked at him with big, -frightened eyes. She had never thought of that possibility before. What -if he did no longer love her? she thought fearfully. She looked about her -helplessly. She felt bewildered, dazed; slowly she sank down on the rocky -earth, her trembling limbs refusing to support her. Her fair head drooped -pathetically, like a lily bent and bruised by the storm. - -“If Robert doesna want me any more,” she murmured after a pause, a -pathetic little catch in her voice, “if he loves someone else better than -he does his Highland Mary, then I—I——” - -“Ye’ll soon forget him, Mary,” interrupted Gilbert eagerly, his heart -throbbing with hope. She raised her eyes from which all the light had -flown and looked at him sadly, reproachfully. - -“Nay, lad, I wouldna care to live any longer,” she said quietly. -“My heart would just break,” and she smiled a pitiful little smile -which smote him like a knife thrust. He caught her two hands in his -passionately and pressed them to his heart with a cry of pain. - -“Dinna mind what I said, lass,” he cried, conscience stricken; “dinna -look like that. I dinna mean to grieve ye, Mary, I love ye too well.” -And almost before he realized it he had recklessly, passionately, -incoherently told her of his love for her, his jealousy of his brother, -his grief and pain at losing her. Mary gazed at him in wonder, scarcely -understanding his wild words, his excited manner. - -“I’m fair pleased that ye love me, Gilbert,” she answered him in her -innocence. “Ye ken I love ye too, for ye’ve been so kind and good -to me ever since Robert has been awa’,” and she pressed his hand -affectionately. With a groan of despair he released her and turned away -without another word. Suddenly she understood, and a great wave of -sympathy welled up in her heart. “Oh, Gilbert,” she cried sorrowfully, -a world of compassion in her voice. “I understand ye noo, laddie, an’ -I’m so sorry, so sorry.” He bit his lips till the blood came. Finally he -spoke in a tone of quiet bitterness. - -“I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise this past year,” he said, “but -’tis all ended noo. Why, ever since he went awa’ I have wished, hoped, -and even prayed that Rob would never return to Mossgiel, that ye might -forget him and his accursed poetry, and in time would become my wife.” He -threw out his hands with a despairing gesture as he finished. - -“Oh, Gilbert,” she faltered, with tears in her eyes, “I never dreamed ye -thought of me in that way. Had I only known, I——” she broke off abruptly -and looked away toward the cottage. - -“Ye see what a villain I have been,” he continued with a bitter smile. -“But ye have nothin’ to blame yoursel’ for, Mary. I had no right to think -of ye ither than as Robert’s betrothed wife.” - -“I’m so sorry, lad,” repeated Mary compassionately. Then her downcast -face brightened. “Let us both forget what has passed this day, and be the -same good friends as ever, wi’na we, Gilbert?” And she held out her hand -to him with her old winning smile. - -“God bless ye, lassie,” he replied brokenly. Quietly they stood there for -a few minutes, then with a sudden start they realized that deep twilight -had fallen upon them. Silently, stealthily it had descended, like a -quickly drawn curtain. Slowly they wended their way back to the cottage. -When they reached the door Mary suddenly turned and peered into the -deepening twilight. - -“Listen!” she said breathlessly. “Dinna ye hear a voice, Gilbert?” He -listened for a minute. Faintly there came on the still air the distant -murmur of many voices. - -“’Tis only the lads on their way to the village,” he replied quietly. -With a little shiver, Mary drew her plaidie closely about her, for the -air had grown cool. - -“I think I’ll hae to be goin’ noo,” she said dejectedly. “He willna be -here this night.” - -“Very well,” answered Gilbert. “I’ll saddle the mare and take ye back. -Bide here a wee,” and he left her. She could hardly restrain the -disappointed tears, which rose to her eyes. - -Why didn’t Robert come? What could keep him so late? She so longed to see -her laddie once more. She idly wondered why the lads, whose voices she -now heard quite plainly, were coming toward Mossgiel. There was no inn -hereabouts. By the light of the rising moon she saw them on the moor, -ever drawing nearer and nearer, but they had no interest for her. Nothing -interested her now. She leaned back against the wall of the cottage and -patiently awaited Gilbert’s return. - -“He’s comin’! he’s comin’!” suddenly exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Burns -from within the cottage. “My lad is comin’! Out of my way, ye skellum!” -and out she ran, her face aglow with love and excitement, followed by -Souter, who was shouting gleefully, “He’s comin’! he’s comin’! Robbie’s -comin’!” and off he sped in her footsteps, to meet the returned wanderer. - -“It’s Robbie! it’s Robbie!” cried Mary joyously, her nerves a-quiver, -as she heard the vociferous outburst of welcome from the lads, who were -bringing him in triumph to his very door. - -“Welcome hame, laddie!” shouted the crowd, as they came across the field, -singing, laughing and joking like schoolboys on a frolic. - -“Oh, I canna’, I darena’ meet him before them a’,” she exclaimed aloud, -blushing rosily, frightened at the thought of meeting him before the -good-natured country folk. - -She would wait till they all went away, and, turning, she ran into the -house like a timid child. Quickly she hid behind the old fireplace, -listening shyly, as she heard them approach the open door. - -“Thank ye, lads, for your kind welcome,” said Robert as he reached the -threshold, one arm around his mother. “I didna’ ken I had left so many -friends in Mossgiel,” and he looked around gratefully at the rugged faces -that were grinning broadly into his. - -“Come doon to the Inn and hae a wee nippie for auld lang syne,” sang out -Sandy MacPherson, with an inviting wave of the hand. - -“Nay, an’ he’ll not gang a step, Sandy MacPherson,” cried Mrs. Burns -indignantly, clinging closely to her son. - -“Nay, I thank ye, Sandy,” laughingly replied Robert. “Ye must excuse me -to-night. I’ll see ye all later, and we’ll have a lang chat o’er auld -times.” - -“Come awa’ noo, Robert,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly, “an’ I’ll get ye a -bite and a sup,” and she drew him into the house. - -“Good-night, lads; I’ll see ye to-morrow,” he called back to them -cheerily. - -“Good-night,” they answered in a chorus, and with “three cheers for -Robbie Burns” that made the welkin ring, they departed into the night, -merrily singing “Should auld acquaintance be forgot?” a song Robert -himself had written before leaving Mossgiel. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -“Ah, Souter Johnny, how are ye, mon?” cried Robert heartily, as his eyes -rested on the beaming face of the old man. “Faith, an’ I thought I’d find -ye here as of old. ’Tis almost a fixture ye are.” - -“Ah, weel,” replied Souter nonchalantly, as he shook Robert’s -outstretched hand, “ye ken the Scripture says, ‘an’ the poor ye have -always wi’ ye.’” Robert laughed merrily at the old man’s sally. - -“Thank goodness, they’ve gone at last,” said Mrs. Burns with a sigh -of relief, as she entered the room. “Why, laddie, ye had half the -ne’er-do-weels of Mossgiel a-following ye. They are only a lot of leeches -and idle brawlers, that’s a’,” and her dark eyes flashed her disapproval. - -“I’m sure they have kind hearts, mither, for a’ that,” replied Robert -reproachfully. - -“Ye’re so popular wi’ them a’, Robbie,” cried Souter proudly. - -“Aye, when he has a shillin’ to spend on them,” added Mrs. Burns dryly. -“But sit doon, laddie; ye maun be tired wi’ your lang walk,” and she -gently pushed him into a chair beside the table. - -“I am a wee bittie tired,” sighed Robert gratefully as he leaned back in -the chair. - -“I’ll soon hae something to eat before ye,” replied his mother briskly. - -“I’m nae hungry, mother,” answered Robert. “Indeed, I couldna’ eat a -thing,” he remonstrated as she piled the food before him. - -“’Tis in love ye are,” insinuated Souter with a knowing look. “I ken the -symptoms weel; ye canna’ eat.” - -“Ye’re wrong there,” replied Robert with a bright smile. “Love but -increases my appetite.” - -“Aye, for love,” added Souter _sotto voce_. - -“Ah, mother dear, how guid it seems to be at hame again, under the old -familiar roof-tree,” said Robert a little later, as he leaned back -contentedly in his chair and gazed about the room with eager, alert -glances. As he sits there with his arms folded let us take a look at -our hero. Of more than medium height, his form suggested agility as -well as strength. His high forehead, shaded with black curling hair -tied at the neck, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, -dark, and full of fire and intelligence. His face was well formed and -uncommonly interesting and expressive, although at the first glance his -features had a certain air of coarseness, mingled with an expression of -calm thoughtfulness, approaching melancholy. He was dressed carelessly -in a blue homespun long coat, belted at the waist, over a buff-colored -vest; short blue pantaloons, tucked into long gray home-knit stockings, -which came up above his knee, and broad low brogans, made by Souter’s -hands. He wore a handsome plaid of small white and black checks over one -shoulder, the ends being brought together under the opposite arm and tied -loosely behind. - -“’Tis a fine hame-comin’ ye’ve had, laddie,” cried old Souter proudly. -“Faith, it’s just like they give the heir of grand estates. We should hae -had a big bonfire burnin’ outside our—ahem—palace gates,” and he waved -his hand grandiloquently. - -“Dinna’ ye make fun of our poor clay biggin’, Souter Johnny,” cried Mrs. -Burns rebukingly. “Be it ever so poor, ’tis our hame.” - -“Aye, ’tis our hame, mother,” repeated Robert lovingly. “An’ e’en tho’ -I have been roaming in other parts, still this humble cottage is the -dearest spot on earth to me. I love it all, every stick and stone, each -blade of grass, every familiar object that greeted my eager gaze as I -crossed the moor to this haven of rest, my hame. And my love for it this -moment is the strongest feeling within me.” - -His roving eyes tenderly sought out one by one the familiar bits of -furniture around the room, and lingered for a moment lovingly on the -old fireplace. It was there he had first seen Mary Campbell. She had -come to the cottage on an errand, and as she stood leaning against the -mantel, the sunlight gleaming through the window upon her golden hair, -he had entered the room. It was plainly love at first sight, and so he -had told her that same day, as he walked back to Castle Montgomery with -the winsome dairymaid. The course of their love had flowed smoothly and -uneventfully; he loved her with all the depth of his passionate emotional -nature, and yet his love was more spiritual than physical. She was an -endless source of inspiration, as many a little song and ode which had -appeared in the Tarbolton weekly from time to time could testify. How -long the year had been away from her, he mused dreamily. To-morrow, -bright and early, he would hurry over to Castle Montgomery and surprise -her at her duties. - -[Illustration: “Gazed straight into the startled eyes of Robert.”] - -Mary, from her hiding place, had watched all that happened since Robert -had come into the room. She had not expected to remain so long hidden, -she thought wistfully. She had hoped that Mrs. Burns would miss her, and -that she, or Robert, or someone would look for her, but they had not -even thought of her, and her lips trembled piteously at their neglect. -And so she had stayed on, peeping out at them, whenever their backs were -turned, feeling very lonely, and very miserable, in spite of the pride -that thrilled her, as she watched her lover sitting there so handsome -in the full strength of his young manhood. Perhaps they didn’t want her -here to-night. Perhaps it was true, as Gilbert said, “that Robert didn’t -love her any more.” The tears could no longer be restrained. If she -could only slip out unobserved she would go home. She wasn’t afraid, -she thought miserably. She wondered what they were doing now, they were -so quiet? Peering shyly around the mantel, she gazed straight into the -startled eyes of Robert, who with a surprised ejaculation started back in -amazement. - -“Why, Mary Campbell!” cried his mother remorsefully, as she caught sight -of Mary’s face, “I declare I clear forgot ye, lass.” With a glad cry -Robert sprang toward her and grasped her two hands in his own, his eyes -shining with love and happiness. - -“Mary, lass, were ye hidin’ awa’ from me?” he asked in tender reproach. -She dropped her head bashfully without a word. “’Tis o’er sweet in ye, -dear, to come over to welcome me hame,” he continued radiantly. “Come -an’ let me look at ye,” and he drew her gently to where the candle light -could fall on her shy, flushed face. “Oh, ’tis bonnie ye’re looking, -lassie,” he cried proudly. He raised her drooping head, so that his -hungry eyes could feast on her beauty. She stood speechless, like a -frightened child, not daring to raise her eyes to his. “Haven’t ye a word -of welcome for me, sweetheart?” he whispered tenderly, drawing her to him -caressingly. - -“I’m—I’m very glad to hae ye back again,” she faltered softly, her sweet -voice scarcely audible. - -“Go an’ kiss him, Mary; dinna’ mind us,” cried Souter impatiently. “I can -see ye’re both asking for it wi’ your eyes,” he insinuated. And he drew -near them expectantly. - -“Hauld your whist, ye old tyke,” flashed Mrs. Burns indignantly. “Robbie -Burns doesna’ need ye to tell him how to act wi’ the lassies.” - -“I’ll not dispute ye there,” replied Souter dryly, winking his eye at -Robert knowingly. - -Robert laughed merrily as he answered, “Ye ken we’re both o’er bashful -before ye a’.” - -“Ah, ye’re a fine pair of lovers, ye are,” retorted Souter disgustedly, -turning away. - -“So the neighbors say, Souter,” responded Robert gayly, giving Mary a -loving little squeeze. - -And surely there never was a handsomer couple, thought Mistress Burns -proudly, as they stood there together. One so dark, so big and strong, -the other so fair, so fragile and winsome. And so thought Gilbert Burns -jealously, as he came quietly into the room. Robert went to him quickly, -a smile lighting up his dark face, his hand outstretched in greeting. - -“I’m o’er glad to see ye again, Gilbert,” he cried impulsively, shaking -his brother’s limp hand. - -“So ye’ve come back again,” said Gilbert, coldly. - -“Aye, like a bad penny,” laughingly responded Robert. “Noo that I am -burned out of my situation, I’ve come hame to help ye in the labors of -the farm,” and he pressed his brother’s hand warmly. - -“I fear your thoughts willna’ lang be on farming,” observed Gilbert -sarcastically, going to the fireplace and deliberately turning his back -to Robert. - -“I’ll struggle hard to keep them there, brother,” replied Robert simply. -His brother’s coldness had chilled his extraordinarily sensitive nature. -He walked slowly back to his seat. - -“I ken ye’d rather be writin’ love verses than farmin’, eh, Robert?” -chimed in Souter thoughtlessly. - -“’Tis only a waste of time writin’ poetry, my lad,” sighed Mrs. Burns, -shaking her head disapprovingly. - -“I canna’ help writin’, mother,” answered the lad firmly, a trifle -defiantly. “For the love of poesy was born in me, and that love was -fostered at your ain knee ever since my childhood days.” - -She sighed regretfully. “I didna’ ken what seed I was sowing then, -laddie,” she answered thoughtfully. - -“Dinna’ be discouraged,” cried Mary eagerly, going to him. “I’ve faith in -ye, laddie, and in your poetry, too.” She put her hand on his shoulder -lovingly, as he sat beside the table, looking gloomy and dejected. “Some -day,” she continued, a thrill of pride in her voice, “ye’ll wake to -find your name on everybody’s lips. You’ll be rich and famous, mayhap. -Who kens, ye may even become the Bard o’ Scotland,” she concluded in an -awestruck tone. - -“Nay, Mary, I do not hope for that,” replied Robert, his dark -countenance relaxing into a smile of tenderness at her wild prophecy, -although in his own heart he felt conscious of superior talents. - -“Waesucks,” chuckled Souter reminiscently. “Do you mind, Robbie, how, -a year ago, ye riled up the community, an’ the kirk especially, over -your verses called ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer’? Aye, lad, it was an able -keen satire, and auld Squire Armour recognized the truth of it, for he -threatened to hae ye arrested for blaspheming the kirk and the auld licht -religion. He’ll ne’er forgive ye for that,” and he shook his head with -conviction. - -“He’s an auld Calvinistic hypocrite,” replied Robert carelessly, “and he -deserved to be satirized alang wi’ the rest of the Elders. Let us hope -the verses may do them and the kirk some good. They are sadly in need of -reform.” Then with a gay laugh he told them a funny anecdote concerning -one of the Elders, and for over an hour they listened to the rich tones -of his voice as he entertained them with jest and song and story, -passing quickly from one to the other, as the various emotions succeeded -each other in his mind, assuming with equal ease the expression of the -broadest mirth, the deepest melancholy or the most sublime emotion. They -sat around him spellbound. Never had they seen him in such a changeable -mood as to-night. - -“And noo, laddie, tell us about your life in Irvine and Mauchline,” said -Mrs. Burns. - -Robert had finished his last story, and sat in meditative silence, -watching the smoldering peat in the fireplace. - -He hesitated for a moment. “There is little to tell, mother,” he -answered, not looking up, “and that little is na worth tellin’.” - -“I ken ye’ve come back no richer in pocket than when ye left,” remarked -Gilbert questioningly. As his brother made no answer, he continued with -sarcastic irony, “But perhaps there wasna’ enough work for ye there.” He -watched his brother’s face narrowly. - -“There was work enough for a’,” replied Robert in a low tone, an -agony of remorse in his voice. “An’ I tried to fulfill faithfully the -uncongenial tasks set before me, but I would sink into dreams, forgetting -my surroundings, my duties, and would set me doon to put on paper the -thoughts and fancies which came rushing through my brain, raging like -so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme; then the conning o’er -my verses like a spell soothed all into quiet again.” A far away rapt -expression came over his countenance as he finished, and his dark -glowing eyes gazed dreamily into space, as if communing with the Muses. -Mrs. Burns and Mary both watched him with moist, adoring eyes, hardly -breathing lest they should disturb his reverie. Gilbert stirred in his -chair restlessly. - -“Ye will never prosper unless ye give up this day dreaming,” he -exclaimed impatiently, rising from his chair and pacing the floor. - -Robert looked up, the fire fading from his eyes, his face growing dark -and forbidding. “I ken that weel, Gilbert,” he answered bitterly. “An’ I -despair of ever makin’ anything of mysel’ in this world, not e’en a poor -farmer. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy nor the flutter of the -gay. I’m but an idle rhymster, a ne’er-do-weel.” He walked quickly to the -window and stood dejectedly looking out into the night. - -“Nay, ye’re a genius, lad,” declared old Souter emphatically, patting -him affectionately on the shoulder. “I havena’ watched your erratic ways -for nothin’, an’ I say ye’re a genius. It’s a sad thing to be a genius, -Robert, an’ I sympathize wi’ ye,” and the old hypocrite shook his head -dolefully as he took his seat at the fireplace. - -“I’m a failure, I ken that weel. I’m a failure,” muttered Robert -despairingly, his heart heavy and sad. - -“Nay, laddie, ye mustna’ talk like that,’tis not right,” cried Mary, -bravely keeping back the sympathetic tears from her eyes and forcing -a little smile to her lips. “Ye are only twenty-five,” she continued -earnestly. “An’ all your life is stretchin’ out before ye. Why, ye mustna -ever think o’ failure. Ye must think only of bright, happy things, and -ye’ll see how everythin’ will come out all right. Noo mind that. So -cheer thee, laddie, or ye’ll make us all sad on this your hame-comin’. -Come, noo, look pleasant,” and she gave his arm a loving little shake. -As his stern face melted into a sad smile, she laughed happily. “That’s -right, laddie.” With a little encouraging nod she left him, and running -to Mrs. Burns, she gave her a hug and a kiss, until the old lady’s grim -features relaxed. Then like a bird she flitted to the other side of the -room. - -“Souter Johnny,” she saucily cried, “how dare ye look so mournful like. -Hae ye a fit o’ the gloom, man?” - -“Not a bit o’ it,” retorted Souter energetically, jumping lightly to his -feet. “Will I stand on my head for ye, Mary, eh?” - -Mary laughed merrily as Mrs. Burns replied in scathing tones, “Your -brains are in your boots, noo, Souter Johnny.” - -“Weel, wherever they are,” responded Souter with a quizzical smile, “they -dinna’ trouble me o’er much. Weel, I think I’ll be turnin’ in noo,” he -continued, stretching himself lazily. “Good-night to ye all,” and taking -a candle from the dresser, he slowly left the room. - -“Come, lads,’tis bedtime,” admonished Mrs. Burns, glancing at the old -high clock that stood in the corner. “Mary, ye shall sleep with me, and, -Robert, ye know where to find your bed. It hasna’ been slept in since ye -left. Dinna’ forget your candle, Gilbert,” she called out as he started -for the door. He silently took it from her hand. “Dinna’ forget your -promise,” she whispered anxiously to him as he left the room in gloomy -silence. - -The look on his face frightened her. There was bitterness and despair -in the quick glance he gave the happy lovers, who were standing in the -shadow of the deep window. “The lad looked fair heart-broken,” she mused -sorrowfully. For a moment she looked after him, a puzzled frown on her -brow. Then suddenly the truth dawned on her. How blind she had been, why -hadn’t she thought of that before? The lad was in love. In love with -Mary Campbell, that was the cause of his bitterness toward his brother. -“Both in love with the same lass,” she murmured apprehensively, and -visions of petty meannesses, bitter discords, between the two brothers, -jealous quarrels, resulting in bloody strife, perhaps; and she shuddered -at the mental picture her uneasy mind had conjured up. The sooner Robert -and Mary were married the sooner peace would be restored, she thought -resolutely. They could start out for themselves, go to Auld Ayr or to -Dumfries. They couldn’t be much worse off there than here. And determined -to set her mind easy before she retired, she walked briskly toward the -couple, who now sat hand in hand, oblivious to earthly surroundings, -the soft moonlight streaming full upon their happy upturned faces. She -watched them a moment in silence, loath to break in upon their sweet -communion. Presently she spoke. - -“Robert,” she called softly, “ye’d better gang to your bed noo, lad.” - -With a start he came back to earth, and jumping up boyishly, replied with -a happy laugh, “I forgot, mother, that I was keeping ye and Mary from -your rest.” He glanced toward the recessed bed in the wall where his -mother was wont to sleep. “Good-night, mither, good-night, Mary,” he said -lovingly. Then taking his candle, he started for the door, but turned as -his mother called his name and looked at her questioningly. - -“Laddie, dinna’ think I’m meddling in your affairs,” she said -hesitatingly, “but I’m fair curious to know when ye an’ Mary will be wed.” - -Robert looked inquiringly at Mary, who blushed and dropped her head. -“Before harvest begins, mither,” he answered hopefully, “if Mary will be -ready and willing. Will that suit ye, lassie?” And he looked tenderly at -the drooping head, covered with its wealth of soft, glittering curls. - -“I hae all my linen spun and woven,” she faltered, after a nervous -silence, not daring to look at him. “Ye ken the lassies often came a -rockin’ and so helped me get it done.” She raised her head and looked in -his glowing face. “’Tis a very small dowry I’ll be bringin’ ye, laddie,” -she added in pathetic earnestness. - -He gave a little contented laugh. “Ye’re bringin’ me yoursel’, dearie,” -he murmured tenderly. “What mair could any lad want. I ken I do not -deserve such a bonnie sweet sonsie lassie for my wife.” He looked away -thoughtfully for a moment. Then he continued with glowing eyes, “But -ye mind the verse o’ the song I gave ye before I went awa’?” he said -lovingly, taking her hand in his. His voice trembled with feeling as he -fervently recited the lines: - - “We have plighted our troth, my Mary, - In mutual affection to join, - And cursed be the cause that shall part us, - The hour and moment o’ time.” - -She smiled confidingly up into his radiant face, then laid her -little head against his breast like a tired child. “Always remember, -sweetheart,” he continued softly, as if in answer to that look, “that -Robbie Burns’ love for his Highland Mary will remain forever the -tenderest, truest passion of his unworthy life.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Life at Mossgiel passed uneventfully and monotonously. Robert had settled -down with every appearance of contentment to the homely duties of the -farmer, and Gilbert could find no fault with the amount of labor done. -Morning till night he plowed and harrowed the rocky soil, without a word -of complaint, although the work was very hard and laborious. Planting had -now begun and his tasks were materially lightened. He had ample leisure -to indulge in his favorite pastime; and that he failed to take advantage -of his opportunities for rhyming was a mystery to Gilbert, and a source -of endless regret to Mary. But his mother could tell of the many nights -she had seen the candle light gleaming far into the night; and her heart -was sore troubled when in the morning she would see the evidence of his -midnight toil, scraps of closely written paper scattered in wild disorder -over his small table, but she held her peace. The lad loved to do it, she -mused tenderly, and so long as he was not shirking his work, why disturb -his tranquillity? - -A few weeks after the return of our hero Mary and Mrs. Burns were seated -in the living-room, Mrs. Burns as usual busy at her wheel, while Mary -sat sewing at the window, where she could look out across the fields -and see her sweetheart, who, with a white sheet containing his seed -corn slung across his shoulder, was scattering the grain in the earth. -She sang dreamily as she sewed, her sweet face beaming with love and -happiness. No presentiment warned her of the approaching tragedy that was -soon to cast its blighting shadow over that happy household—a tragedy -that was inevitable. The guilty one had sown to the flesh, he must reap -corruption. The seed had been sown carelessly, recklessly, and now the -harvest time had come, and such a harvest! The pity of it was that the -grim reaper must with his devouring sickle ruthlessly cut down such a -tender, sweet, and innocent flower as she who sat there so happy and so -blissfully unconscious of her impending doom. - -Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, she jumped excitedly to -her feet. “Mistress Burns,” she cried breathlessly, “here are grand -lookin’ strangers comin’ up the path. City folk, too, I ken. Look.” - -Hastily the good dame ran to the window. “Sure as death, Mary; they’re -comin’ here,” she cried in amazement. “Oh, lack a day, an’ I’m na dressed -to receive the gentry.” A look of comical dismay clouded her anxious -face as she hurriedly adjusted her cap and smoothed out her apron. “Is -my cap on straight, Mary?” she nervously inquired. Mary nodded her head -reassuringly. “Oh, dear, whatever can they want?” Steps sounded without. -“Ye open the door, Mary,” she whispered sibilantly as the peremptory -knock sounded loudly through the room. Timidly Mary approached the door. -“Hist, wait,” called Mrs. Burns in sudden alarm. “My ’kerchief isna’ -pinned.” Hastily she pinned the loose end in place, then folding her -hands, she said firmly, “Noo let them enter.” Mary slowly opened the -door, which, swinging inward, concealed her from the three strangers, who -entered with ill-concealed impatience on the part of the two ladies who -were being laughingly chided by their handsome escort. With a wondering -look of admiration at the richly dressed visitors, Mary quietly stole out -and softly shut the door behind her. - -With a murmur of disgust the younger of the two ladies, who was about -nineteen, walked to the fireplace, and raising her quilted blue -petticoat, which showed beneath the pale pink overdress with its Watteau -plait, she daintily held her foot to the blaze. A disfiguring frown -marred the dark beauty of her face as her bold black eyes gazed about her -impatiently. - -“It’s a monstrous shame,” she flashed angrily, “to have an accident -happen within a few miles of home. Will it delay us long, think you?” she -inquired anxiously, addressing her companion. - -“It depends on the skill of the driver to repair the injury,” replied -the other lady indifferently. She appeared the elder of the two by some -few years, and was evidently a lady of rank and fashion. She looked -distinctly regal and commanding in her large Gainsborough hat tilted on -one side of her elaborately dressed court wig. A look of amused curiosity -came over her patrician face as she calmly surveyed the interior of the -cottage. She inclined her head graciously to Mrs. Burns, who with a deep -courtesy stood waiting their pleasure. - -“We have just met with an accident, guidwife,” laughingly said the -gentleman, who stood in the doorway brushing the dust from his long -black cloak. He was a scholarly looking man of middle age, dressed in -the height of taste and fashion. “While crossing the old bridge yonder,” -he continued, smiling courteously at Mrs. Burns, “our coach had the -misfortune to cast a wheel, spilling us all willy-nilly, on the ground, -and we must crave your hospitality, guidwife.” - -“Ye are a’ welcome,” quickly answered Mrs. Burns with another courtesy. -“Sit doon, please,” and she placed a chair for the lady, who languidly -seated herself thereon with a low murmur of thanks. - -“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the gentleman, coming into the -room, his cloak over his arm. “I am Lord Glencairn of Edinburgh. This is -Lady Glencairn, and yonder lady is Mistress Jean Armour of Mauchline.” - -The young lady in question, who was still standing by the fireplace, -flashed him a look of decided annoyance. She seemed greatly perturbed at -the enforced delay of the journey. She started violently as she heard -Mrs. Burns say, “And I am Mrs. Burns, your lordship.” Then she hurried to -the old lady’s side, a startled look in her flashing eyes. - -“Mistress Burns of Mossgiel Farm?” she inquired in a trembling voice. - -“Yes, my lady,” replied Mrs. Burns. The young lady’s face went white as -she walked nervously back to the fireplace. - -“My dear Jean, whatever is the matter?” asked Lady Glencairn lazily, as -she noticed Jean’s perturbation. “Is there anything in the name of Burns -to frighten you?” - -“No, your ladyship,” replied Jean falteringly, turning her face away -so that her large Gainsborough hat completely shielded her quivering -features. “I—I am still a trifle nervous from the upset, that is all.” -She seemed strangely agitated. - -“Was it not unlucky?” replied Lady Glencairn in her rich vibrating -contralto. “’Twill be a most wearisome wait, I fear, but we simply must -endure it with the best possible grace,” and she unfastened her long -cloak of black velvet and threw it off her shoulders, revealing her -matchless form in its tightly fitting gown of amber satin, with all its -alluring lines and sinuous curves, to the utmost advantage. - -“It willna’ be long noo, your ladyship,” replied Mrs. Burns, smiling -complacently. She had quietly left the room while the two were talking, -and seeing Souter hovering anxiously around, trying to summon up courage -to enter, she had commanded him to go to the fields and tell the lads of -the accident, which he had reluctantly done. - -“My lads will soon fix it for ye,” she continued proudly. “Robert is a -very handy lad, ye ken. He is my eldest son, who has just returned from -Mauchline,” she explained loquaciously in answer to Lord Glencairn’s -questioning look. - -Jean nervously clutched at the neck of her gown, her face alternately -flushing and paling. “Your son is here now?” she asked eagerly, turning -to Mrs. Burns. - -“Aye, he’s out yonder in the fields,” she answered simply. - -“Oh, then you know the young man?” interrogated Lady Glencairn, glancing -sharply at Jean. - -“Yes, I know him,” she answered with averted gaze. “We met occasionally -in Mauchline at dancing school, where we fell acquainted.” - -Lady Glencairn looked at her with half-closed eyes for a moment, then she -smilingly said, “And I’ll wager your love for coquetting prompted you to -make a conquest of the innocent rustic, eh, Jean?” - -Jean tossed her head angrily and walked to the window. - -“Lady Glencairn, you are pleased to jest,” she retorted haughtily. - -“There, there, Jean, you’re over prudish. I vow ’twould be no crime,” -her ladyship calmly returned. “I’ll wager this young farmer was a gay -Lothario while in Mauchline,” she continued mockingly. - -“Oh, no, your ladyship,” interrupted Mrs. Burns simply. “He was a flax -dresser.” - -“Truly a more respectable occupation, madame,” gravely responded Lord -Glencairn with a suspicious twinkle in his eye. - -“Thank ye, my lord,” answered Mrs. Burns with a deep courtesy. “My lad is -a good lad, if I do say so, and he has returned to us as pure minded as -when he went awa’ a year ago.” - -Lady Glencairn raised her delicately arched eyebrows in amused surprise. -Turning to Jean, she murmured drily, “And away from home a year, too! He -must be a model of virtue, truly.” - -Jean gazed at her with startled eyes. “Can she suspect aught?” she asked -herself fearfully. - -“Could I be getting ye a cup of milk?” asked Mrs. Burns hospitably. “’Tis -a’ I have to offer, but ’tis cool and refreshing.” - -“Fresh milk,” repeated Lady Glencairn, rising with delight. “I vow it -would be most welcome, guidwife.” - -“Indeed it would,” responded her husband. And Mrs. Burns with a gratified -smile hurried from the room. - -“My dear, don’t look so tragic,” drawled Lady Glencairn carelessly, as -she noticed Jean’s pale face and frightened eyes. “We’ll soon be in -Mauchline. Although why you are in such a monstrous hurry to reach that -lonesome village after your delightful sojourn in the capital, is more -than I can conjecture,” and her keen eyes noted with wonder the flush -mount quickly to the girl’s cheek. - -“It is two months since I left my home, your ladyship,” faltered Jean -hesitatingly. “It’s only natural I should be anxious to see my dear -parents again.” She dropped her eyes quickly before her ladyship’s -penetrating gaze. - -“Dear parents, indeed,” sniffed Lady Glencairn to herself suspiciously as -she followed their hostess to the door of the “ben.” - -With a nervous little laugh Jean rose quickly from her chair by the -window and walked toward the door through which they had entered. “The -accident has quite upset me, Lady Glencairn,” she said constrainedly. -“Would you mind if I stroll about the fields until my nerves are -settled?” she asked with a forced laugh. - -“No, child, go by all means,” replied her ladyship indolently. “The air -will do you good, no doubt.” - -“I warn you not to wander too far from the house,” interposed Lord -Glencairn with a kindly smile. “We will not be detained much longer.” -With a smile of thanks she hastily left the room just as Mrs. Burns -entered from the “ben” bearing a large blue pitcher filled with foaming -milk, which she placed on the table before her smiling visitors. - -Jean breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. She -felt in another moment she would have screamed aloud in her nervousness. -That fate should have brought her to the very home of the man she had -thought still in Mauchline, and to see whom she had hurriedly left -Edinburgh, filled her with wonder and dread. “I must see him before we -leave,” she said nervously, clasping and unclasping her hands. But where -should she find him? She walked quickly down the path and gazed across -the fields, where in the distance she could see several men at work, -repairing the disabled coach. Anxiously she strained her eyes to see if -the one she sought was among them, but he was not there. Quickly she -retraced her steps. “I must find him. I must speak with him this day,” -she said determinedly. As she neared the cottage she turned aside and -walked toward the high stone fence which enclosed the house and yard. -Swiftly mounting the old stile, she looked about her. Suddenly she gave -a sharp little exclamation, and her heart bounded violently, for there -before her, coming across the field, was the man she sought, his hands -clasped behind him, his head bent low in the deepest meditation. With a -sigh of relief she sank down on the step and calmly awaited his approach. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Robert flung the last of his seed corn into the earth with a sigh of -thankfulness, for though he gave the powers of his body to the labors -of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his cares. He -longed to seek the quiet of his attic room, for his soul was bursting -with song and his nervous fingers fairly itched to grasp his pencil and -catch and hold forever the pearls dropped from the lap of the Goddess -Muse into his worshipful soul, ere they faded and dissolved into -lusterless fragments. Mechanically he turned his footsteps toward the -cottage, plunged in deep reverie. As he walked slowly along his mind -suddenly reverted to the year he had spent in Mauchline. It had been his -first taste of town life. Blessed with a strong appetite for sociability, -although constitutionally melancholy, and a hair-brained imagination, he -had become an immediate favorite and welcome guest wherever he visited. -_Vive l’amour_ and _vive la bagatelle_ had soon become his sole principle -of action. His heart, which was completely tinder, was eternally lighted -up by some goddess or other, and it was not long before he regarded -illicit love with levity, which two months previously he had thought of -with horror. Poesy was still a darling walk for his mind, but it was -only indulged in according to the humor of the hour. Having no aim in -life he had been easily led from the paths of virtue into many forms of -dissipation, which, when indulged in, afterwards plunged him into the -deepest melancholy. A few months after his advent into the village he -had met Jean Armour, the daughter of a master builder. She was one of -the belles of Mauchline, a wild, willful, imprudent lass, whose sensual -charms soon ensnared the susceptible heart of the unsophisticated farmer -lad. The fatal defect of his character was the comparative weakness of -his volition, and his passions, once lighted up, soon carried him down -the stream of error and swept him over the precipice he saw directly in -his course. - -Such being their temperaments, it was not to be wondered at when their -procedure soon became decidedly irregular, their intimacy becoming the -common talk and gossip of Mauchline. - -A few months before Robert returned to Mossgiel farm Jean had received -an invitation from her god-parents, Lord and Lady Glencairn, to visit -Edinburgh, which she had accepted with eagerness, for she was becoming -tired of her latest conquest and longed for the gay life of the capital. - -Robert saw her leave Mauchline with no pangs of regret at her inconstancy -and caprice. He was in a state of profound melancholy at the time, the -thoughts of how he had fallen from the paths of truth and virtue, the -thoughts of the pure love of his sweetheart at home, filling his heart -with grief and remorse. He was thinking of all this as he approached the -stile. How wretchedly weak and sinful he had been to forget his sworn -vows to Mary, he thought remorsefully. “May no harping voice from that -past ever come to disturb her peace of mind,” he prayed fervently. - -Jean watched him, drawing ever nearer, with eyes filled with sudden shame -and dread at what she had to tell him. Why had her brief infatuation for -the poverty-stricken farmer led her into such depths of imprudence and -recklessness? she thought angrily. As he reached the bottom of the stile -she softly spoke his name, and noted with chagrin his startled look of -surprise and annoyance as he raised his eyes to hers. - -“Jean Armour?” he cried in amazement. - -“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked coquettishly, his presence -exercising its old fascination for her. - -“What has brought ye to Mossgiel?” he asked abruptly, ignoring her -outstretched hand. - -“An accident,” she replied flippantly. “I was on my way home and would -have been there ere this had it not been for a fortunate mishap.” - -“Fortunate mishap?” he repeated questioningly. - -“Yes,” she retorted amiably, “otherwise I should have missed seeing you,” -and she smiled down into his pale startled face. - -“I dinna understand why ye left Edinburgh,” he began, when she -interrupted him. - -“Because I thought you were still in Mauchline,” she explained quickly. -He look at her questioningly. “I left Edinburgh for the sole purpose of -seeing you, Robert,” she announced quietly, making room for him to sit -beside her, but he did not accept the invitation. - -“Well, noo, that was very kind of ye, Jean,” he replied a little -uneasily. “But I’m not so conceited as to believe that. I ken the charms -o’ Edinburgh town, with its handsome officers, soon made ye forget the -quiet country village, and a’ your old flames, including your bashful -humble servant,” and he made her a mocking bow. - -His tone of satirical raillery made her wince. “Forget?” she cried -passionately, jumping to her feet. “I wish to heaven I might forget -everything, but I cannot—I cannot.” The sudden thought of her predicament -caused her haughty, rebellious spirit to quail, and covering her face -with her hands, she burst into a paroxysm of tears and sank heavily down -upon the step. - -He regarded the weeping woman silently. Was her attachment for him -stronger than he had believed? Could it be possible she still entertained -a passion for him? he asked himself anxiously. But no, that couldn’t -be; she had left him two months ago with a careless word of farewell on -her laughing lips. Yet why these tears, these wild words she had just -uttered? A wave of pity for her swept over him as he realized, if such -were the case, that he must repulse her advances gently but none the less -firmly. He had done with her forever when he said his last farewell. -There could be no raking over of the dead ashes. - -Jean angrily wiped away her tears. She must not give way to such -weakness. She had an errand to perform which would need all her courage. -He was evidently waiting for some explanation of her strange behavior, -she told herself with a vain effort to steel her heart. Now was the time -to tell him all, she thought fearfully, peeking out from behind her -small linen ’kerchief, with which she was dabbing her eyes, at his cold, -wondering face. The sooner it was done the sooner she would know what to -expect at his hands. How should she begin? After a long, nervous pause -she faltered out, “Have you forgotten the past, Robert, and all that we -were to each other?” - -“Nay, Jean, I remember everything,” he answered remorsefully. “But let -us not speak of that noo, please. Ye ken that is all ended between us -forever.” He turned away pale and trembling, for her presence, her looks -and words recalled many things he wanted to forget, that shamed him to -remember. - -“Ended?” she repeated, an angry flush rising to the roots of her black -hair. She looked at him in amazement. He, the poverty-stricken farmer, -had repulsed her, the belle of Mauchline? Could she have heard aright? -He who had always been at her beck and call, two months ago her willing -slave, could it be that he was over his infatuation for her? She had -not thought of that possibility. She had expected him to be humble, -gratefully flattered by her condescension in seeking him out. If he -should refuse the proposal she had come so far to make! she thought in -trepidation. “He must not refuse, he shall not refuse,” and her face -grew hard and set. But perhaps he was piqued because she had left him -so unceremoniously two months ago, because she had not written him. Her -tense lips relaxed into a smile. Oh, well, she would be nice to him -now; she would make him think she was breaking her heart for him, work -on his sympathy, then perhaps it would not be necessary to confess her -humiliating plight. No farmer doomed to lifelong poverty would be averse -to winning the hand of the daughter of the rich Squire Armour. These -thoughts, running through her mind, decided her next move, and with -a fluttering sigh she rose from her seat and descended the step. She -drew close to him and looking languishingly up into his face, murmured, -“Why should it be ended, Robert? I love you just the same as I did -in the past,” and she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him -passionately. “You do love me a little, tell me you do.” - -“Jean, ye must be daft,” he panted, vainly trying to disengage himself -from her embrace. - -But she continued softly, alluringly, “Think of the old days, when I -lay in your arms like this, Robbie. Think of those happy hours we spent -together on the banks of the Doon. You were not cold to me then. Oh, let -us live them all over again. How happy we will be. Kiss me, Rob,” and she -lifted her flushed, piquant face, her crimson lips pursed temptingly, -close to his. The warmth of her seductive body, the white bare arms in -their short sleeves, which embraced his neck, the half-closed passionate -eyes gazing invitingly, languorously into his own, fired his naturally -ardent blood, making his senses to reel from the contact. Slowly his -arms, which had been restraining her amorous embrace, tightened their -hold on her, drawing her closer and closer, while the drops of sweat -poured down his white, yielding face, as with wild bloodshot eyes he -battled with the temptations which beset him so wantonly, so dangerously. -With a thrill of elation not unmixed with desire she felt him yielding -to her embrace, and knew that she had won him again. With a cooing cry -of delight she was about to press her warm lips to his, when suddenly a -bird-like voice singing in the distance arrested her impulse. - - “Oh where and oh where is my Highland laddie gone?” - -rang out the voice of the singer plaintively. With a cry of brief and -horror Robert tore the clinging arms from about his neck and threw her -madly from him. “What is the matter, Robert?” she cried fearfully, -looking at him in amazement. - -“I think ye had better go noo, Jean,” he answered harshly, not looking at -her. “’Twill be best for us both. Oh, how I despise my weakness, I had no -right, no right noo.” And there was an agony of shame and remorse in his -voice. - -“Do you mean,” she asked white with rage. “That you are not free to do as -you like?” He remained silent a moment. - -Then his face grew calm and peaceful. “The lass whom ye hear singing is -Mary Campbell, my betrothed wife,” he answered simply. “We are to be -married when the plantin’ is done. We have been sweethearts for years, -and if I have in my weakness forgotten my sworn vows to her, by God’s -help I’ll strive to be more faithful in the future.” His voice vibrated -with intense feeling as he made the resolution. Then he continued softly -and tenderly, “And the love I bear my faithful Mary will never cease as -long as this crimson current flows within me.” A mocking laugh greeted -his words as he finished. - -“I tell you, Robert Burns,” cried Jean threateningly, “she shall never be -your wife, for I will——” But the angry words died suddenly on her lips at -an unlooked-for interruption. - -“Jean, Jean,” called a lazy voice. Turning quickly she saw with -apprehension Lady Glencairn standing in the open doorway of the cottage, -beckoning leisurely to her. Had she heard her imprudent words? she asked -herself in terror. But no, that were not possible. She had not raised her -voice. For a moment she hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she -tell him the truth now? It would only mean a hurriedly whispered word or -two, but as she looked at him standing there so proudly erect, the angry, -puzzled flush which her last hasty words had occasioned still mantling -his swarthy face, she felt her courage slipping away from her. Why not -wait and write him? she temporized; that would be much better than -creating a scene now, with the sharp eye of Lady Glencairn fastened upon -them. Yes, she would do that, she decided hastily. She turned calmly and -mounted the stile and without one backward glance descended to the other -side. “Are you coming?” she asked indifferently over her shoulder, and -without waiting for his answer walked quickly toward the house. Robert -after a moment’s indecision gravely followed her, the look of puzzled -concern still wrinkling his forehead. - -“Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn’t know you were indulging in a -tête-à-tête,” said Lady Glencairn frigidly as they reached the door. - -“Lady Glencairn, this is Mr. Robert Burns,” stammered Jean nervously, -with a flush of embarrassment at her ladyship’s sarcastic smile. - -“Oh, indeed, delighted I’m sure,” said her ladyship, with a careless nod, -which changed to surprised interest as Robert with simple, manly dignity -removed his Tam O’Shanter and bowed low before the haughty beauty. “What -an air for a peasant,” she mused. “What dignity,” and she surveyed him -critically from the top of his head, with its black clustering locks -which gleamed purple in the sunshine, to the tip of his rough leather -brogans; noting with admiration his stalwart frame, the well-shaped head -and massive neck, the strength suggested in the broad shoulders, the -deep chest, the herculean limbs with the swelling muscles displayed to -such advantage within the tightly fitting breeches of doe skin. “What a -handsome creature,” she thought with a thrill of admiration, as she took -the mental inventory of his good points. “And decidedly interesting, -I’ll wager, if not dangerous,” she added, smiling contemplatively as she -caught the look of respectful admiration which gleamed in his wonderfully -magnetic eyes. - -“Oh, James,” she called languidly reëntering the room, “here is the young -man who has so kindly assisted in repairing the coach—the young man who -has just returned from Mauchline,” she added significantly. - -“Nay, your ladyship, ’tis my brother Gilbert you must thank for his -assistance, not me,” replied Robert, flushing. As the deep tones of his -sonorous voice fell on her ear she felt an indefinable thrill of emotion -steal over her that startled her. She looked at him wonderingly. What -peculiar magnetism was there in this farmer’s voice that could so easily -move her, who had always prided herself on her coldness, her indifference -to all men, including her husband, who was blissfully unconscious of his -beautiful wife’s sentiments regarding him? - -“Your brother had no easy task, I fear, Mr. Burns,” remarked Lord -Glencairn genially. Then he turned smilingly to Jean, who was standing -impatiently in the doorway. “What have you been doing all this time, my -dear Jean?” he asked lightly. - -“Ask Mr. Burns,” insinuated Lady Glencairn with an odd little smile at -Jean’s embarrassed countenance. He looked inquiringly at the surprised -face of the young farmer. - -“Miss Armour has done me the honor of listening to some of my rhyming,” -quietly replied Robert with a quick glance at Jean, his ready wit coming -to her rescue. - -“So then you are a poet,” murmured Lady Glencairn, with a smile. “Do you -write love sonnets to your sweethearts, or does the muse incline at this -season to songs of springtime?” - -“Aye, my lady, he has the gift indeed,” spoke up Mrs. Burns -deprecatingly. “But I dinna’ ken if it amounts to aught.” - -“My mother doesna’ care for my poetry,” said Robert simply, turning to -her ladyship. - -“Dinna’ say that, laddie,” replied his mother earnestly. “Ye ken I’m -o’er fond of those verses to Highland Mary, but——” - -“‘Highland Mary’? what a dear name,” interrupted Lady Glencairn sweetly, -smiling at Robert. “Who is she, may I ask?” and she leaned forward -questioningly in her chair. - -“She is a—a friend,” he replied, flushing to the roots of his hair. Then -he continued, softly, his eyes lighting up with love and devotion, “An’ -she is as sweet and fragrant as a sprig of pure white heather plucked -from her native Highlands.” - -“Aye, and she’ll make a fine wife for Robert,” added Mrs. Burns -complacently. - -“Aye, finer than I deserve, mither,” he replied, looking uneasily at -Jean, who had started violently, then quickly leaned back against the -door post, pale and trembling. - -“Marry her? Never! He cannot, he must not,” she muttered to herself, -frantically. - -“Why, Jean!” cried Lady Glencairn, going to her in sudden alarm. “What -ails you, why do you look so wild?” - -“I—I’m—a pain gripped my heart most suddenly,” she faltered. “I find it -over warm here,” she gasped. “I’ll await you without,” and she left the -room, a strange, frightened look on her pale face. - -With a puzzled frown Lady Glencairn turned and sank thoughtfully into a -chair. Looking up suddenly, she caught Robert’s eye fastened upon her -face in eager scrutiny. “Let me see, what were we speaking about?” she -inquired indifferently. - -“Ye were kind enough to ask me about my poetry,” answered Rob quietly. -Jean’s queer behavior troubled him. What did it all mean? He feared she -had aroused suspicion in her ladyship’s mind. - -“Oh, to be sure, and I vow I’m curious,” she replied brightly. “I should -like to read one of your poems, Mr. Burns, if you have one at hand.” - -“He has bushels of them in the attic, your ladyship,” eagerly spoke Mrs. -Burns. - -“Aye, mother,” laughed Robert, “all waiting for the publisher. Here is -one I but this day scribbled off, if—if ye really care to read it,” he -added bashfully, taking a scrap of paper from the pocket of his loose -shirt and handing it to Lady Glencairn. - -She took it with a smile of amused indifference. A farmer and a poet! -the idea was absurd. With an almost imperceptibly sarcastic lifting of -her delicate eyebrows she read the title, “‘Flow gently, sweet Afton, -among thy green braes.’” Then she read the verse in growing wonder and -astonishment. She had thought to please him with a word of praise, -even if they were laughably commonplace and prosaic; but it was with -genuine enthusiasm that she heartily cried, “Really, ’tis a gem, Mr. -Burns, so charming withal, such beautiful sentiment, and writ in most -excellent style. Read it, James,” and she handed it to Lord Glencairn, -who carefully perused it with apparent delight in its rhythmic beauty of -composition. - -“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Robert, flushing. “Your praise is o’er sweet -to my hungry ear.” She gazed at him in open admiration. - -“Here, Robert, are some more,” cried Mrs. Burns, entering the room with a -box, which she placed before her son. “Show his lordship these, laddie,” -and she hovered nervously around, her face flushed with excitement, -watching anxiously every look and expression that passed over the faces -of their guests. - -Robert opened the box and selected a few of the poems at random, which he -handed to Lord Glencairn without a word. - -“‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ ‘Willie brewed a peck of malt,’ ‘Holy -Willie’s Prayer,’ ‘The Lass of Balbehmyle,’” read Lord Glencairn slowly, -glancing over their titles. Then he read them through earnestly, his -noble face expressing the interest he felt; then with a sigh of pleasure -he passed them to Lady Glencairn, who devoured the written pages eagerly, -her face flushed and radiant. When she had finished, she leaned back in -her chair and fixed her luminous eyes upon her husband’s beaming face. - -“James,” said she decidedly, “you will please me well if you will -influence some publisher to accept this young man’s poems and place them -before the public. I’m sure he is most deserving, and—he interests me -greatly.” There was a peculiar glitter in her half-closed eyes as she -gazed intently at Robert with an enigmatic smile parting her red lips. -The gracious lady with her high-bred air, her alluring smile, her extreme -condescension, was a revelation to the country-bred lad, who was brought -in close contact for the first time with one so far above his station in -life. He felt his awkwardness more than he had ever thought possible as -he felt her critical eyes fastened upon him and heard her honeyed words -of praise and encouragement. - -“Mr. Burns,” said his lordship earnestly, “your poems interest me -greatly, and I declare such genius as you display should be given an -opportunity to develop. It will afford me much pleasure to take these -verses, with your permission, back with me to Edinburgh and submit them -to Sir William Creech, who is the largest publisher there, and a personal -friend of mine, and if he accepts these poems as a criterion of your -artistic ability, without the least doubt your success will be at once -assured.” He put them carefully in the large wallet he had taken from an -inside pocket while he was talking, and replaced it within his coat. - -Robert looked at him, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I—I canna find -words to express my unbounded gratitude to you, my lord,” he faltered, -his voice low and shaking. - -“I’d advise you to make a collection of your poems, my lad,” continued -Lord Glencairn quietly, touched by the sight of Robert’s expressive -features, which he was vainly trying to control. “Chiefly those in the -Scottish dialect; they are new and will create a sensation. Have them -ready to forward to town when sent for.” There was a tense silence for a -moment when he had finished. - -Robert dared not trust his voice to speak, to utter his thanks. Finally -he burst out. “My lord, how can I ever thank ye for this unlooked-for -generosity to an absolute stranger!” he cried brokenly. “For years -I have been praying for a publisher to edit my songs, but I could -see no silver lining to the dark clouds of obscurity hanging over my -unhappy, friendless head, clouds which threatened to engulf me in -their maddening embrace. But now,” he continued eloquently, his voice -ringing with gladness, “the bright sunlight is peeping around the fast -disappearing cloud, warming my very soul with its joyous rays. Oh, my -lord, if ever the name of Robert Burns should e’en become familiar to his -countrymen,’twill be through your graciousness, your benevolence, to a -poor unknown, humble plowman,” and his eyes filled with tears of love and -gratitude for his noble benefactor. - -Lord Glencairn took a pinch of snuff from the small oblong box he held in -his hand, and used his handkerchief vigorously to conceal the tears of -sympathy which had welled up in his eyes as he listened to the recital -of Robert’s ambitions, his hopes and fears. - -“My dear lad,” he said, trying to speak lightly, “I have done nothing as -yet to deserve such fulsome words of thanks. ’Tis but a trifling thing I -propose doing, and it pleases me, else perhaps I might not trouble myself -to speak in your behalf.” - -“Ah, noo, sir,” cried Mrs. Burns, wiping away the tears of joy, “’tis -your big, noble heart which prompts ye to assist a struggling genius to -something better, higher, and nobler in this life. God bless ye for it.” - -The door opened, and Gilbert Burns quietly entered the room. Removing his -Tam O’Shanter, he bowed respectfully to Lord Glencairn and said briefly, -“Your Lordship’s coach is repaired.” - -With a word of thanks Lord Glencairn rose and assisted his wife into her -cloak. - -“Thank goodness we can proceed on our journey while it is yet light,” she -said animatedly, going to the door. - -“I assure you, Mistress Burns, we have enjoyed your hospitality amazing -well,” said Lord Glencairn, turning to their hostess. “Believe me, we’ll -not forget it.” - -They left the house, followed by their admiring hosts. Suddenly Lady -Glencairn gave a little cry of delighted surprise as her eyes rested on -the drooping figure of Highland Mary, sitting disconsolately on a large -rock beside the old well. “What a sweet, pretty flower of a lass!” she -cried enthusiastically. “Come here, child,” she called aloud. Mary looked -up quickly with a little gasp of surprise, for she had not noticed them -come out. She rose bashfully to her feet and stood hesitating, her eyes -timidly fixed on a piece of heather she was holding in her hand. - -Lady Glencairn laughed amusedly. “I vow ’tis an uncommon modest shy -wildflower truly,” she said to her husband. “Come here, child, I’ll not -bite you,” and she held out her hands toward the wondering girl. - -With a little silvery, timid laugh Mary walked quickly toward her. “I’m -no afraid, my lady,” she replied quietly, but her heart was beating very -fast, nevertheless, as she stood before the great lady, who was watching -the flower-like face, with the delicate pink color coming and going, with -such apparent admiration. - -“That’s our Highland Mary,” triumphantly cried Souter, who had just come -upon the scene. - -“Oh, indeed,” replied her ladyship brightly. “So you are Highland Mary.” - -“Yes, my lady,” answered Mary with a quaint little courtesy. - -“Isn’t she a dear,” said Lady Glencairn aloud to her husband. - -She turned to Robert, who was proudly watching Mary, with eyes aglow -with love and happiness. “No wonder, Mr. Burns,” she said, a sigh -involuntarily escaping her as she noted his rapt gaze, “that you have -sought to portray in song and verse the sweet loveliness of this fair -maiden.” Then she turned suddenly to Mary. - -“You’re a very pretty child,” she said carelessly. “But I suppose you -know that well ere this.” She laughed cynically and turned away. - -“She isna used to such compliments, your ladyship,” said Robert, noticing -the embarrassed blush that mounted to Mary’s cheek. “She’s o’er shy, ye -ken.” - -“That’s the kind we raise in the Highlands,” declared Souter with a -satisfied air. - -“Come, James, it grows late,” wearily said Lady Glencairn, taking her -husband’s arm. “And here is the coach.” As the vehicle with its prancing -black horses champing restlessly at their bits drew up to the gate, she -turned to Mary and said condescendingly, “Good-by, child; I suppose some -day, when Mr. Burns is the Bard of Scotland, we’ll see you in town with -him. Be sure to come and see me at Glencairn Hall.” - -“Thank ye, my lady,” replied Mary, courtesying deeply, fortunately not -discerning the sarcasm in the tired tones of the great lady’s voice. - -Lord Glencairn helped her into the coach, and then turned to Robert with -outstretched hand. “My lad,” he said cordially, “you may expect to hear -from me or Sir William Creech very shortly. Good-by.” - -“Good-by, sir,” replied Robert, “and may Heaven bless you.” - -“Oh, Lud,” cried Lady Glencairn as they were about to start, “we’re -forgetting Jean.” - -“The young lady strolled alang,” answered Gilbert quietly. “She said you -would overtake her on the road.” - -Lady Glencairn thanked him with a careless nod, and then leaned far out -of the door to Robert. “Remember, Mr. Burns,” she said softly, pressing -his hand, “I expect to see you in Edinburgh very soon, don’t forget,” -and with another lingering look, full of meaning, she withdrew into the -coach, and soon they were gone in a cloud of dust, while he stood there -gazing after them like one in a dream with the last rays of the setting -sun lighting up his dark, passionate face. - -“Hurra! ’tis luck ye’re in, laddie,” shouted Souter in his ear. “The -gentry have noticed ye. Ye should be dancing for joy, mon. I’m off to -tell the lads of your good fortune,” and away he sped to the village, -eager as any old gossip to spread the glorious news. - -“Isna it all like a dream, Mary?” sighed Mrs. Burns rapturously, leading -the way into the house, followed by the two lovers, who entered hand -in hand and seated themselves in blissful silence on the high-backed -settle under the window, their favorite seat. For a few moments they sat -motionless, regarding each other with moist eyes. It almost seemed too -good to be true. In a few weeks perhaps Robert would be a great man, -thought Mary proudly. “Weel, I always did have faith in Robert’s poetry,” -suddenly declared Mrs. Burns with conviction. - -Robert smiled at his mother’s words. “They would all say that now,” he -thought, but without bitterness, for it was only the way of the world -after all. - -“Ye’ll soon hae riches noo,” said Mary happily. - -“Aye, then ye shall hae a fine new gown, and—and we will be married noo, -instead of waiting,” answered Robert, taking her tenderly in his arms. - -“’Tis a bonnie, bonnie pair ye make,” said Mrs. Burns lovingly. “May God -bless ye,” and she softly stole away, leaving them to their feast of -love. - -[Illustration: “Slipped quickly behind an old beech tree.”] - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Jean left the house filled with terrified dismay. Robert going to -marry another? then what would become of her? She would be disgraced -and ruined. The thought drove her frantic. “He shall not marry her; he -shall give me the protection of his name, for the time being at least,” -she said to herself angrily. Afterward, the marriage could be easily -annulled; she did not want him. She did not want to be tied for life to -any farmer, not she. She would then return to Edinburgh. But suppose he -would not consent to such an arrangement? Well she would scare him into -it. He was as much to blame as she was anyway. She would not wait to -write him after all; she would tell him now. There was nothing to fear. -She would wait until the others had started, then come back and force her -claim. If they went on without her, it did not matter much; it was not -far to the Inn, she mused determinedly. She stopped in her rapid walk and -retraced her steps. As she neared the cottage the door opened and her -god-parents came out, and with them were Robert and the others. Before -they could perceive her, however, she slipped quickly behind an old beech -tree back of the well and nearest the house. Breathlessly, impatiently, -she waited while they talked, and talked, till she thought they would -never go. Then when the coach came and the attendant excitement of its -departure, like a guilty creature she stole noiselessly across the -intervening space to the cottage, slipped through the open door, and hid -herself behind the fireplace, where Mary had concealed herself some weeks -before. - -After Mrs. Burns left the room Jean came boldly out from her hiding place -and stood before the startled couple, who gazed at her in amazement. She -looked at them insolently, a sneer on her full lips. - -“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burns,” she interrupted sarcastically. The -color slowly faded from his ruddy face. Was she going to expose that -shameful page in his past history to this innocent child? Would she dare, -could she be so reckless, so shameless? he asked himself fearfully. - -“I thought ye had gone,” he said, dangerously calm, stepping up to her. - -“I could not go till I had delivered a message,” she explained, dropping -her eyes before the determined light in his. - -“What is it?” he asked, puzzled by her tone and manner. - -“It is of great importance and for your ears alone,” she replied glibly. -“I’m sure this lady—Miss Campbell, is it not?—will not mind leaving us -for a moment,” and she smiled amiably into Mary’s innocent inquiring -face. - -He led Mary gently to the door. “It’ll be only for a moment, Mary,” he -said quietly. - -“I dinna’ mind,” she answered brightly. “’Tis near time for me to be -going hame, ye ken,” and with a smile she left them together. - -“Noo, then, what is your message?” he said with calm abruptness, as the -door closed. - -“This!” and she threw back her head defiantly. “You must give up this -Mary Campbell.” - -He looked at her in amazement. “What do ye mean?” he gasped, opening his -eyes in bewilderment. - -“I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him -wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued -stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to -save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?” - -A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness. -Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and -yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he -would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a -groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I -willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean -Armour!” - -“It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands. -“What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to -humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed -me?” She laughed wildly. - -“Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt -dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed -his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think. -He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again. - -“You must write out an acknowledgment and sign your name to it,” she -continued, her voice low and insistent. “It is an irregular marriage I -know, but it will save me from my father’s wrath, when I can keep my -plight from him no longer.” He still remained silent, his face hidden -in his hands. “Will you do this?” she demanded anxiously, “or,” and -her voice grew hard and threatening, “or shall I appeal to the Parish -officers to help me save my good name from disgrace?” Quickly he raised -his head. At his look of indignant scorn she winced and turned away, -flushing angrily. - -With a mirthless little laugh he retorted with bitter emphasis, “Your -good name, indeed!” - -She turned on him defiantly. “I was no worse than other girls,” she -flippantly retorted. “Only more unfortunate. Will you do what I ask? -Quick, tell me, someone is coming!” She nervously caught his hand. He did -not speak. His face grew haggard and old-looking as he stood motionless, -forming his resolution. It seemed to her an eternity before he answered -her. - -“So be it,” he answered hoarsely, drawing his hand away from hers -and moving slowly to the door. “I’ll send ye the lines by the posty -to-morrow.” - -With a cry of delight she gratefully held out her hand to him. But he -quietly opened the door, and, without a word or look at her, stood -silently holding it back, his head bowed low on his bosom, his face -cold and repellent. Slowly Jean walked past him out into the deepening -twilight. She felt a dawning pity in her heart for the wretched lad. She -could not quite forget those old, happy days, those stolen walks and -trysts along the banks of the Ayr. No one could make love so ardently as -he, she thought with a sigh. Of all her lovers he had been the favorite, -he was so ingenuous, so trustful and confiding, and yet so reckless, so -imprudent and weak. She knew well he had never really loved her, and the -thought had made her strive all the harder to win him. He was flattered -by her open preference for him, and soon became an easy victim, a slave, -to her seductive charms and sophisticated fascinations, for he was only -human. And now the heart of that little dairymaid would be broken. A -quick pang of shame and regret stole over her, but she instantly stifled -it. She must think of self first, she told herself uneasily. Anyway she -only wanted the marriage lines in case people should point an accusing -finger at her. Later—well, the marriage could be annulled privately, and -no one be the wiser, for marriages were easily annulled in Scotland. She -walked briskly to where the coach was standing, for they were waiting for -her, determined to cast all gloomy, depressing thoughts from her for the -time at least. - -Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the -dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to -the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat -there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest -despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to -consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged -himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the -bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face, -while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones -of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly: - - “Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, - How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?” - -A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the -voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him. - -“Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up -forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of -anguish and remorse. - - “How can ye chant, ye little birds, - An’ I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?” - -continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated -to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing -thoughts. - -As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room -eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her -smile is very sweet and tender. - -“Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after -his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable -sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on, -wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting -there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly -raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice -floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread -of her song: - - “Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, - That wantons thro’ the flow’ring thorn. - Thou minds me o’ departed joys, - Departed, never to return.” - -The song died away in the distance. - -“God pity her, God pity me,” he murmured brokenly. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -From the huge, low ceilinged kitchen of Castle Montgomery, which was -ablaze with light, came the gladsome sound of mirth and revelry, for - - “Some merry countre folks togither did convene, - To burn their nits and pou’ their stocks, and hold their hallowe’en, - For blythe that night.” - -For miles around the annual invitations had been sent broadcast, and -to-night the capacious kitchen was taxed to its utmost. It was, however, -a singularly good-natured, if over-hilarious, gathering that had -assembled to do justice to old Bess’s cooking, and to test their fate -through the medium of the many charms so well known to all the peasantry. - -There was Poosie Nancy in her stiffly-starched frilled cap and her new -kirtle, complacently nodding here and there to all of her acquaintances -as they flocked about her. Poosie Nancy was a merry old soul. For years -she had been the mistress of the Arms Inn, the public house on the high -road, where Souter and Tam O’Shanter were wont to idle away their time -and, incidentally, their “siller.” Standing on one foot behind her was -Molly Dunn. Molly was consciously resplendent in a new plaid frock, made -by her own unskilled hands, and while it was certainly not a thing of -beauty, it surely was a joy forever, to the lassies, who laughingly -twitted her about her handiwork. But she heeded not their good-natured -jibes. She was admiringly watching Daddy Auld, the little old minister, -who sat in the midst of an admiring group of his parishioners at the -other side of the room, who evidently stood in no awe of him, judging -from the bursts of laughter which greeted his frequent attempts at -jocularity. - -“Where is Tam O’Shanter, Souter Johnny?” suddenly asked old Bess, who -was proudly doing the honors as mistress of ceremonies. Souter was -assiduously paying court to the comely Poosie Nancy in the opposite -corner with an eye to future possibilities. - -“He willna be here till late,” he replied impatiently, addressing the -crowd. “I left him at the Arms Inn, an’ if he drinks much mair whisky, -he will na’ be here at all, I’m thinkin’,” and he turned eagerly to his -inamorata, who was fanning herself indifferently with a plantain leaf. - -“He’ll fall into the Doon some night an’ be drowned, sure as fate,” said -she, carelessly dismissing the subject. - -“Take your partners for the reel!” shouted big Malcolm Macræ -stentoriously, at this juncture. Old Donald tuned up his fiddle with -gleeful alacrity. - -Souter ceremoniously offered Poosie his arm, which she condescendingly -accepted, and majestically they walked to the middle of the floor. With -much laughing and joking and good-natured rivalry, they were all quickly -paired off, and soon the rafters rang with the happy voices of the -hilarious dancers as they merrily sang to the tune that blind Donald was -scratching out on his old and faithful, though unmelodious, fiddle. - -Mary had taken no part in the merrymaking, for she felt heavy and sad -at heart. From her seat in the corner, where the light was the dimmest, -she had watched the door with patient anxiety, hoping against hope that -Robert would come, but she had waited in vain, and now the evening was -nearly spent and soon they would be going home, happy and tired after -their sport and entertainment, while she would steal away to her quarters -over the kitchen and cry herself to sleep, as she had done for many -nights past. Souter Johnny, who was in his element and the merriest of -them all, had tried vainly to induce her to join the revelers in their -sport, and many an honest laddie had sought her hand in the dance, -only to be shyly refused. So gradually she was left in peace, and soon -forgotten amid the excitement of their diversions. They had tried some of -the famous charms, which decided the destinies of many of the lads and -lassies that night, and now old Bess brought forth her long-hoarded bag -of nuts, which she divided among them. Amid shouts of mirth and laughter, -they proceeded to test the most famous of all the charms. As they rushed -pell-mell to the fireplace and laid each particular nut in the fire, -for which they had named the lad or lassie of their choice, and stood -there eagerly watching, open-mouthed, to see how they would burn, Mary, -with a quickly beating heart, stole unperceived close to the front row of -watchers, and with a little prayer, quietly threw her pair into the fire. -For a moment they burned slowly side by side, then with a hop and a jump -they popped madly about, and finally at opposite sides of the fireplace -they glowed redly for a time, then expired altogether. With a little, -suppressed sob, unheeded in the general excitement, she hurried back to -her seat, pale and trembling. It was as she had feared: the course of -their love was never again to run smoothly, the charm had spoken. It -had never been known to predict wrongly. Why had she sought to find out -her fate? she asked herself pathetically. Unheeding the merry songs and -dances going on around her, of which they never seemed to weary, and -the unco tales and funny jokes, she sat there thinking her sweet, sad -thoughts, and patiently waiting till they should depart for their homes, -that she might seek the quiet of her bed, where her aching heart might -find relief in the tears which nowadays were so hard to control. Suddenly -the laughter subsided, and Mary with a start raised her head to see all -eyes turned on her. - -“Mary, come here, lass,” called Souter Johnny, who was fanning himself -vigorously. - -“It’s your turn noo, Mary,” they cried boisterously. “So gie us a dance -or a song,” and they all pressed around her with good-natured suggestions. - -Old Bess took the shrinking girl by the hand, and leading her forward, -with a deep courtesy announced, “Hieland Mary will favor us wi’ a song,” -then she left Mary standing in the center of the room suffering agonies -of dread as she raised her frightened eyes to the group of laughing, -good-natured, gaping faces about her. - -“I canna’ sing, I canna’ sing, Souter,” she faltered, turning to him -beseechingly. - -“Yes, ye can, dearie, just a—a verse, there’s a girlie,” he answered -encouragingly. “Come and stand beside me, if that’s any inspiration to -ye,” he added, smiling good-humoredly. - -She ran to his side, and clutching him by the arm, tried to muster up her -courage, for the good-natured audience were clamorously demanding a song. -With a frightened little gasp she began to sing the first thing that came -to her mind. “Oh, where, and oh, where is my Highland laddie gone?” she -faltered out. A little titter passed through the crowd, for they knew -that “Rab Burns was nae longer sweet on Mary Campbell,” as they told each -other in loud whispers. At the cruel sound Mary, whose lips had trembled -ominously as she thought of her recreant lover, with an indignant look -at the thoughtless ones, burst into a flood of tears. Quickly Souter -led her sobbing to a seat, while the others anxiously crowded round, -conscience-stricken at their thoughtless levity. - -“What’s happent? what’s happent? Has she fainted?” they asked in helpless -confusion, gazing from one to the other. - -“She’s only a wee bittie tired,” answered old Souter, tenderly smoothing -the hair of the sorrowing lass. “Let her alone an’ she’ll be all right. -Donald,” he called, “start your fiddle; we’re gang to hae anither dance.” - -The blind old patriarch smiled serenely, and raising his fiddle to his -chin began to play, and soon the mirth and fun grew fast and furious as -the dancers reeled and set, and crosst and cleekit. - -While old Donald was playing, and the dance was well started, Souter -quietly led Mary out in the open air, and sitting down on the doorstep, -he drew her gently beside him. “Noo, Mary, what is the matter?” he -inquired kindly. “Winna ye tell old Souter Johnny your trouble?” - -“Ye ken why I am unhappy, Souter Johnny,” answered Mary apathetically. He -sighed and remained silent. - -“Have ye an’ Robert quarreled?” he asked presently. - -“No,” she answered sadly. - -“Weel, come tell old Souter; it may ease your mind, lassie,” and he drew -her plaid about her shoulders, for the night air was keen. - -“Well, ye ken, Souter,” she faltered, a pitiful little break in her -voice, “Robbie an’ I were to be married after the plantin’ was o’er, and -’tis noo harvest time, but ne’er a word has he spoke of our marriage -since that day. He is so changed, Souter, I—I canna understand him at -all,” and she leaned wearily against his shoulder like a tired child. - -“That Armour lass is at the bottom of it all, I ken,” thought Souter -angrily, drawing her close to him. - -“Perhaps,” continued Mary sadly, “perhaps he has grown tired of his -Highland Mary.” She plucked idly at the fringe of her plaid, a look of -resignation on her sweet face. - -“Tired o’ ye?” repeated Souter incredulously. “A man would be a most -fearful fool to gie up such a bonnie, sweet lassie as ye are. Noo, if I -were only younger, Robbie Burns wouldna hae things all his own way, I -tell ye,” and he nodded his head vigorously. - -“I ken he has some trouble,” said Mary, not heeding his jocular efforts -to cheer her, “that makes him so unhappy like; if he would only let me -share that trouble wi’ him, whate’er it is, how gladly I would do it.” - -Souter rubbed his bearded chin reflectively. - -“Weel, Mary, ye ken Robert’s a genius,” he answered soberly. “An’ ye -can ne’er tell how a genius is gang to act, therefore ye must ne’er be -surprised, Mary, at whate’er he does, for genius is but anither name for -eccentricity an’—an’ perverseness,” and he sighed deeply, his kind old -face wrinkled with perplexity. - -“I feel, Souter,” she continued, pathetically calm, “that I am slowly, -but surely, drifting out o’ his life forever.” She gazed suddenly into -the face bending over her solicitously. - -“Dinna ye know the cause, Souter?” she asked beseechingly. - -He brushed his hand across his eyes and slowly shook his head. She sighed -patiently and turned away her head and gazed listlessly into space. For a -few moments there was deep silence, broken only by the bursts of laughter -which came to them at intervals from within. - -“Lassie, listen to me,” finally said the old man, his voice cheery and -hopeful once more. “Ye mustna be so down-hearted; there is a cause -for everything in this world, an’ I ken Robert loves ye wi’ all his -heart, just the same as ever. Why, ye can see the glimmer o’ love in -his e’e whene’er he looks at ye.” He smiled approvingly as Mary’s face -brightened, then continued decidedly, “Robert is well-nigh daft that he -hasna heard frae Lord Glencairn all this time; that is why he is sae -worrid an’ nervous, sae moody an’ neglectful; noo cheer thee, lassie, -it’ll all come right in time,” and he patted her shoulder lovingly. - -“Oh, I feel sae much better, Souter,” she murmured, pressing his hand -gratefully. “An’ noo I’ll na borrow trouble any mair, thinkin’ Robert -doesna’ love me.” She smiled happily and jumped lightly to her feet. - -“Whist, Mary, why dinna ye make sure o’ that?” whispered Souter, looking -around him mysteriously. She looked at him wonderingly. “’Tis Hallowe’en, -ye ken, an’ a’ the witches an’ fairies are about this night an’ will -grant any wish made. Try a charm, lassie.” - -“I did try one,” replied Mary with a sigh. “I burned the nuts, but it -didna’ come out right; that’s what made me sad.” - -“Ah, weel, try anither; go pull a stock.” - -“Oh, nay, I’m afraid to go out in the field at night,” she replied -timidly, drawing back. “But I’ll go if ye’ll come wi’ me.” She held out -her hand to him. - -“Nay, thank ye, Mary,” he said grimly. “I dinna’ care to see the face o’ -my future wife just yet; I fear I couldna’ stand the shock.” - -“Well, I darena’ go alone,” answered Mary decidedly, her hand on the -latch. “Think of anither charm, one I can do indoors.” - -“An’ do ye think the fairies will come around where ’tis light?” he cried -in amazement. “Och, no, ye must go to the darkest place ye can find.” -His little round eyes gazed into hers with solemn earnestness. - -Mary shivered with apprehension and peered into the darkness. “Oh, -Souter, think o’ the witches,” she said nervously. - -“They willna’ hurt ye,” he answered a little impatiently. “Ye maun sow a -handful of hempseed an’ harrow it o’er wi’ anything ye can draw after ye, -an’ repeat o’er and o’er,” assuming a guttural monotone: - - “Hempseed, I sow thee; hempseed, I sow thee, - And him that is to be my true love, - Come after me and draw thee.” - -“And will I see him then?” whispered Mary eagerly, drawing near to him. - -“Aye,” returned Souter hoarsely. “Look over your left shoulder an’ -ye’ll see your future husband pullin’ hemp. Noo, off wi’ ye; ye’ll -find some seed in the barn.” Mary tried to summon up her courage, for -she was highly superstitious, like all the peasantry, and was anxious -to test the potency of the charm, and finally succeeded in taking a -few faltering footsteps in the direction of the barn, when suddenly -the door behind them opened, and Molly Dunn appeared in the doorway. -She held in one hand a lighted candle, while in the other she carried -a broken piece of looking-glass, into which she was gazing intently, -her eyes fixed and staring. Behind her, crowding through the doorway, -followed the now noiseless revelers, who were stifling their laughter to -breathlessly watch the outcome of the well-known charm, whose power Molly -had decided to put to a test, though believing staunchly in its potency. -Molly majestically walked down the steps and across to the well, where, -depositing her mirror on the curbing, she took from the pocket of her -skirt a round, red apple, from which she bit a goodly piece and began -vigorously to chew upon it, the while holding her candle above her head -and anxiously watching her reflection in the mirror. - -“Molly’s eatin’ the apple at the glass,” chuckled Souter to Mary softly. -“She’s lookin’ for the face o’ her future husband. Let’s hae some fun wi’ -her.” He motioned to them all to keep silent, and stealing softly over to -the unconscious Molly, intoned in a deep sepulchral voice, “Molly Dunn, -if ye would see your future husband, dinna’ ye dare turn your head this -way.” - -Molly gave a shriek of terror, thereby choking herself with the piece of -apple she was industriously eating, and falling on her knees, her teeth -chattering in fear, she cried frantically, “The witches! the witches!” - -“Nay, I’m the Deil himsel’,” answered Souter in awe-inspiring accents. -Molly groaned aloud, in mortal terror, not daring to turn around. “An’ -I’ve come for ye, Molly Dunn,” slowly continued her tormentor. - -“Nay, nay!” cried Molly, her eyes staring wildly in front of her. “I want -naught to do wi’ ye; gang awa’, gang awa’!” and she wildly waved her -hands behind her. - -“Not till ye’ve seen the face o’ the man ye’ll wed,” replied the voice. -“Beauteous fairy of Hallowe’en, come forth,” he commanded majestically, -beckoning to Mary to come nearer. She did so. “Speak, kind fairy.” He -whispered to her what to say to the awestruck Molly. - -Thus admonished, Mary, who was once more her old light-hearted winsome -self, raised her sweet voice and spoke in a high falsetto, “Gaze in the -looking-glass, Molly Dunn; eat o’ the apple, think o’ the one ye desire -to see, an’ his face will appear beside yours.” - -“Behold, I pass the magic wand o’er your head, ye faithless woman,” added -Souter threateningly. - -Hurriedly Molly complied with the injunctions, and patiently she knelt -there, apple in hand, the candle light glaring full on her eager, ugly -face, and the wisp of faded hair tied tightly on top of her head, which -was waving wildly about, while she waited for the face to appear beside -her own reflection in the glass. - -“Do ye see him yet?” asked Mary eagerly, forgetting her rôle of “The -Fairy of Hallowe’en,” and speaking in her natural tone, while the -group at the doorway drew closer to the kneeling woman in their excited -curiosity. - -“Nay, not yet,” replied Molly in an awestruck whisper. - -“Hold the candle higher,” admonished Souter, “an’ eat quicker.” Molly -did so. “Noo do you see your handsome lover?” He crept up slyly behind -Molly, and bending over her shoulder, peered into the glass, where he -beheld the shadowy reflection of his own face looming up beside that of -the wondering Molly. With a gasp of pleasure not unmixed with fear, she -dropped the glass, and turning quickly grabbed the surprised Souter and -held him close. As she raised her candle to see whom the fairies had -sent to her, she recognized her tormentor, and with a shriek of rage, -she clouted the laughing Souter over the head with her candlestick, amid -peals of laughter from the delighted spectators, until he called for -mercy. - -“Dinna I suit ye, Molly?” he asked in an injured tone, nursing his sorely -punished head. - -“Ye skelpie limmer’s face, ye, how dare ye try sich sportin’ wi’ me?” she -cried angrily. - -“The glass canna’ lie,” called out old Bess with a shake of her frilled -cap. - -“An’ ye seen Souter’s face there, Molly,” laughed Poosie Nancy loudly. -“There’s no gainsaying that.” - -“I want a braw mon, a handsome mon,” whimpered Molly. “Ye’re no a mon at -all, ye wee skelpie limmer.” The burst of laughter which greeted this -sally was very disconcerting to Souter, whose height, five feet two -inches, was distinctly a sore subject. - -“Try anither charm, Molly,” said Mary, feeling sorry for the poor -innocent. - -“Aye, I will,” replied Molly eagerly, drying her tears with the back of -her hand. - -“Then come alang,” said Souter, ready to make amends. “Come an’ pull a -stock. Gie me your hand.” She did so eagerly. “Noo shut your eyes tight; -that’s it; come along noo.” But Molly braced herself and refused to move. - -“I’m afeered o’ the dark an’ the witches,” she faltered, her teeth -chattering, her eyes so tightly closed that her face was drawn into a -mass of deep wrinkles. - -They all crowded round the couple with words of praise and encouragement, -and presently Molly was persuaded to take a step forward and then -another, and finally the two moved slowly away and were swallowed up in -the darkness. - -Meanwhile the rest of the revelers, after a whispered consultation, -hurried to the outhouse, amid smothered shrieks of laughter. - -Molly and Souter walked slowly and timidly toward the field of corn, -which looked unreal and shadowy in the pale moonlight. Molly’s few -remaining teeth were now chattering so loudly that Souter began to grow -nervous. He jerked her arm impatiently. - -“Be a mon, Molly,” he hoarsely whispered, his voice a little shaky. - -“I’m afeered to,” she answered, opening her eyes and looking fearfully -around. They took a few more stumbling step, then stopped. - -“Och, get off my foot, ye towsie tyke!” cried Souter. Molly hastily -removed the offending member and on they went again. Suddenly they -stopped, rooted to the spot in terror. A low, blood-curdling moan had -rent the stillness. Again it came, chilling the very blood in their veins -by its awful weirdness. - -“The witches! the witches!” gasped Molly in abject fear. - -Turning, they beheld a sight that caused their hair to stand on end, -“the marrow to congeal in their bones,” as Souter afterward explained -the sensation which came over him. Coming toward them was a score or -more of hideous apparitions with fire blazing from their eyes and their -horribly grinning mouths, and groaning and moaning like lost souls. With -a mortal cry of terror, the frightened couple sped on wings of fear back -to the friendly light of the kitchen, the ghostly figures darting after -them with diabolical bursts of laughter. As they slammed the door of -the house behind them their pursuers stopped and quickly blew out their -Jack-o’-Lanterns and then threw them to one side. - -“I didna ken mortal mon could e’er run so fast,” snickered Poosie Nancy -to the others as they noiselessly entered the kitchen in time to hear the -wonderful tale of Souter’s hairbreadth escape from the witches. - -Another hour of mirth and jollity, of dance and song soon sped around. -Souter and Molly were still the center of an admiring group, for they had -seen the witches with their own eyes, and that distinction was theirs -alone that night. Suddenly the old clock struck twelve, then began a -merry scrambling for bonnets and plaids. Having donned them, they noisily -crowded around their hostesses, who were lined up against the wall, -waiting ceremoniously to be thanked for their hospitality and to bid -their parting guests godspeed. As the darts of homely wit and repartee -flew back and forth among them, causing the lads to burst into uproarious -laughter or to grin in awkward bashfulness, and the lassies to turn their -heads away blushingly or to toss their curls coquettishly, the door burst -in suddenly, and Tam O’Shanter staggered to the center of the floor, -pale, wild-eyed, and disheveled. - -“Tam O’Shanter!” they cried, gazing at him in startled amazement. Souter -quickly reached his old cronie’s side. - -“What’s the matter, mon? hae ye seen a ghost?” he asked concernedly. - -“Aye, worse than that, much worse,” hoarsely replied Tam, wiping the -sweat from off his forehead with a trembling hand. - -“What’s happened?” cried old Bess fearfully. - -“Calm yoursel’ an’ tell us, Tam,” said Souter soothingly. They brought -him a chair, for he trembled like an aspen leaf. Throwing himself into -it, he gazed about him fearfully, the while struggling to regain his -breath. - -“Well,’tis this way, Souter,” he began presently in a husky whisper. “I -left the Arms Inn about an hour ago or thereabouts an’ started for hame, -for ’tis a long ride to Carrick, ye ken, an’ a most uncanny ride e’en in -the daylight.” - -“That’s true,” affirmed Poosie Nancy with a nod of conviction to the -others. - -“Weel,” continued Tam impressively, “a few miles beyond the Maypole -road ye have to pass a dark, uncanny spot, the cairn where the hunters -found the murdered bairn. Ye ken the spot, Souter?” turning to him for -confirmation. - -Souter nodded his head quickly. “Aye, Tam, I ken it weel, for ’twas -near there old Mingo’s mother hanged hersel’.” Old Bess looked over her -shoulder nervously. - -“Aye,” eagerly assented Tam, then he continued, “Weel, a weird sight -awaited me there; my blood runs cold noo. Suddenly I heard a sound o’ -music and revelry, and Maggie stopped still, frightened stiff. I looked -up, and glimmering thro’ the trees was auld Kirk Alloway all a blaze o’ -light.” He paused to note the effect of his astounding statement. - -They looked at each other disbelievingly. Some turned angrily away, -muttering to themselves. Was old Tam making sport of them? - -“Go alang, mon,” cried Poosie Nancy with an incredulous sniff of her pug -nose. “’Tis naught but an old tumbled down ruin.” - -“I’m telling ye gospel truth,” replied Tam earnestly. They crowded around -again, ready to be convinced, though still eying him distrustfully. - -“Well, I was nae afraid,” continued Tam bashfully, “for I was inspired -by bold John Barleycorn, so I rode Maggie close to the wall an’ there -thro’ the openin’, I saw inside, and wow! I saw an unco sight!” Tam was -becoming warmed up with his recital. The eager, excited faces crowding -around him had restored his courage and flattered his vanity. He paused -impressively, his eyes fixed and staring, gazing straight past the faces -of his listeners as though he saw the unco sight again. He noted with -pleasure the frightened glances they gave over their shoulders. Then he -proceeded slowly in a sibilant whisper, “There were warlocks and witches -dancin’ hornpipes and jigs around the Kirk, dressed only in their sarks. -There were open coffins standin’ around like clothespresses, an’ in each -coffin stood a corpse holdin’ in its cauld hand a burnin’ light. An’ by -that light I saw two span-lang wee unchristened bairns, white and cold -upon the holy table.” Tam wiped the sweat off his brow and moistened his -dry lips; then he proceeded with his harrowing tale. “Beside the bairns -lay a bloody knife wi’ gray hairs still sticking to the heft an’——” - -But with a shudder of fear, their faces blanched and drawn, they -exclaimed in doubting horror, “Nay!” “Stop!” “Out on ye, mon!” “It’s -nae true!” etc. Tam was not to be cut off in the midst of his tale so -unceremoniously. - -He rose excitedly from his seat and continued rapidly. “The dancers were -twisting and turning like snakes, and there in a winnock-bunker sat Auld -Nick himsel’, in the shape of a beast, playing the pipes. Och, friends, -it was an inspirin’ sight, and in my excitement I yelled out——” - -“What?” cried the lads in unison. - -“‘Well done, Cutty Sark!’” shouted Tam, proudly, well pleased at his own -temerity. - -They boisterously applauded him for his courage, but the lassies still -clung to each other nervously. - -“Then what happened, Tam?” asked Souter quizzingly. He could not quite -bring himself to believe Tam’s improbable tale, he knew the old sinner so -well. - -“Weel, the lights went out in an instant,” continued Tam dramatically. -“I had no sooner turned Maggie’s head than out poured those unco witches -like bees buzzin’ in anger. I didna’ stop to meet them, for Maggie, -knowing her danger, bounded off like a terrified deer and plunged off -desperately through the trees toward the brig with all these witches -followin’ wi’ eldritch screeches, close to her heels till I could feel -their breath on my clammy neck. Oh, what an awful moment for me! but I -knew if I could but reach the keystone of the auld brig I would be safe, -for witches darena cross a running stream, ye ken. Mag did her speedy -utmost, but old Nannie pursued close behind and flew at me with tooth and -nail, but she didna’ know my Maggie’s mettle,” Tam laughed gleefully, -“for with one grand leap she reached the brig and saved her master’s -life, just as that Carline Nannie caught her by the rump, an’ my poor -Maggie left behind her old gray tail.” - -As he finished his recital he gazed around him triumphantly. There was an -audible sigh of relief from all. - -“That’s a burning shame,” said old Bess sympathetically, alluding to the -loss of Maggie’s tail. - -“What a wonderful experience ye had, Tam,” cried Poosie Nancy admiringly. -They all congratulated him on his narrow escape and pressed food and -drink on him, showered him with words of praise, and in short made him -out a daring hero, much to Souter’s disgust. He sat apart from the rest -in dignified silence, his heart wounded and sore, for was not his late -ghostly exploit completely ignored and forgotten? “Le Roi est mort, vive -le Roi,” he might have said to himself. - -“Listen,” cried Tam, jumping to his feet, his face tense with eagerness. -Faintly the patter, patter of a horse’s hoofs was heard drawing nearer -and nearer. - -“’Tis only someone comin’ alang the highway,” said Souter carelessly. - -“’Tis my Maggie,” cried Tam almost tearfully. “She’s comin’ back for -her master,” and with a bound he reached the open doorway. A few steps -took him to the stone wall along the other side of which ran the King’s -Highway. “She’s comin’, she’s comin’, my faithful Maggie is comin’,” he -cried joyfully. - -“She must be an unco sight wi’out a tail, Tam,” sneered Souter. A roar of -laughter greeted this sarcastic retort. - -“Dinna’ ye dare laugh,” cried Tam, turning on them furiously. The -hoofbeats stopped suddenly. In the misty moonlight they caught a -glimpse of a huge white creature, looking very spectral and ghost-like, -impatiently tossing its head from side to side as if in search of -something or someone. With a glad cry Tam vaulted the fence, old as he -was, and dashed down the road, calling lovingly, “I’m comin’, Maggie, I’m -comin’ to ye.” A whinny of delight, a snort of pleasure, greeted him as -he reached his old mare’s side. Then like a phantom, the old gray mare -and her rider sped swiftly past them on into the night and away toward -Carrick. - -Silently they watched them, while the hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter -and then were lost to sound. Such was Tam O’Shanter’s tale, the fame of -which soon spread throughout all Ayrshire. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end -of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the -shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had -left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had -been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but -gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered -brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert -found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, -eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand. - -The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, -and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had -watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. -Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over -and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not -permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. -For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to -be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for -sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she -was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk -beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even -though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch -of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all -this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he -called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging -willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder. - -With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned -slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I -will be doing nothing right o’ late.” - -“Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only -came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.” - -“Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched -hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any -unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try -your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ -help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered -in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, -entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that -were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let loose, and this -is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother -the paper on which he had been writing. - -“Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without -glancing at it. - -“Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ -an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis -partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best -work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he -slowly read the verses through. - -“May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had -finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see -this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh -since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.” - -Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing -hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows -sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two -lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a -word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ -neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his -vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, -why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately, -“only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, -his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. -But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his -honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put -on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic -attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts. - -“Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked -along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?” - -“The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ -tranquillity again on this earth.” - -They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his -hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” -he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.” - -Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low -voice. - -“What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye -intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?” - -Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, -Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.” - -“Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other lassies to think lightly -o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly. - -“Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice. - -“I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. -“I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, -for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have -sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were -taught by your parents, Robert.” - -“What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled. - -“Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye -think; reports travel e’en in the country.” - -The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded -though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden -shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that -I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since -I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that -weel.” - -“Aye, I ken that,” answered Gilbert quickly, “until ye went to Mauchline. -And noo ye have come back a changed lad, your vows to Mary forgotten. If -I thought ye would try to wrong her——” he stopped abruptly, for Robert -had faced him, white and trembling, his eyes flashing indignantly. - -“Stop, Gilbert!” he commanded, intensely calm. “Mary Campbell’s purity is -as sacred to me as an angel’s in heaven. I would sooner cut my tongue out -by the roots than to willingly say aught to cause her a moment’s misery -or sorrow. Ye cruelly misjudge me, Gilbert.” He turned away, feeling hurt -and angry that he should be so misunderstood by his brother, and yet was -he misjudging him, was he not indeed causing her much sorrow? he asked -himself bitterly. - -Soon the whole guilty truth must be disclosed, his faithlessness, his -unworthiness. If she suffered now, what would be her misery when she -learned that an insurmountable barrier had arisen between them, cruelly -separating them forever. The thought filled him with unspeakable anguish. - -“Forgive me, Rob, for my hasty words,” said Gilbert remorsefully. “But ye -ken Mary is very dear to—to us all; that is why I spoke so plainly.” - -At that moment the door of the cottage opened and the object of their -discussion stepped into view. The poor little moth could not help -fluttering around the candle, and so she was to be found at Mossgiel -whenever her duties would permit her to steal away. - -“Oh, here ye are, lads,” she called out to them, her face brightening. -“Will ye be comin’ in to tea noo?” They did not answer. “My, what long -faces ye both have,” she continued, smiling. “This isna’ the Sabbath Day, -so there’s no need of such sorrowful faces.” - -“I didna’ ken ye were here,” answered Gilbert, going toward her. - -Robert sat down by the well, the look of pain on his melancholy face -deepening as he listened to her gentle voice. He closed his eyes wearily -and leaned back against the curbing, the paper held loosely in his hand. -It was so hard to realize that never again would he press that form to -his aching heart, that he must renounce her utterly. Oh, if he could only -die now, how much better it would be for them all, he weakly told himself. - -“I’m going to stay here to tea wi’ ye this night,” said Mary wistfully. -Why didn’t Robert speak to her just one word of greeting? she thought -sadly. “Your mother bade me tell ye supper is waiting whenever ye are -ready.” She took a few halting steps toward the well. “Are ye comin’ in, -Robert?” she inquired timidly. - -“In a wee,” he answered quietly, without looking at her. “After I have -finished my poem.” Mary turned back, crushed to the heart by his apparent -coldness. - -“Weel, lads,” cried Mrs. Burns brightly, stepping out on the low, broad -stoop followed by Souter, who held a cup of steaming tea in one hand and -some oatcakes in the other, on which he nibbled with evident relish. -“I heard your voices and couldna’ stay within,” and she beamed on them -lovingly. - -“Ye’re at it again, I see, Robert,” observed Souter tactlessly. Robert -flushed angrily. He was easily irritated in his present state of mind. -“Ye’ll write yoursel’ into the grave, mon; ye’re not lookin’ very peart -the noo.” - -Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear, -laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously. -His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving -heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, -is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. Is -it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ -fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand -lovingly on his bowed head. - -“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis -my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet -and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of -the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well -try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother -the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. Nay, ’tis too late noo to -dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun -slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor. - -Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all -as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool? -Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles. - -“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish, -“’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. It fair cheers the -heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom. - -“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary -brightly. - -“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully -scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that -Mistress Burns made them hersel’.” - -The good dame regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were -sweet, Souter,” she retorted. - -Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “Weel, they come frae my sister -in Applecross.” - -“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Noo I -mind they did have the Highland flavor, for true.” - -“Aye, an’ ye finished the last one for that reason, no doubt,” replied -Mrs. Burns wrathfully. “Ye’re a pig, mon. Come awa’, lads, your supper -will be gettin’ cold,” and she led the way inside, followed meekly by -Souter. Gilbert waited for Mary to enter, but she stood wistfully gazing -at Robert. With a sigh he left them together, and Robert entered the -cottage. - -Mary slowly approached Robert as he stood looking across to the distant -hills, and patiently waited for him to speak to her, but he stood there -in tense silence, not daring to trust himself to even look at the pure -flower-like face held up to his so pleadingly. - -“Robbie,” she said timidly after a pause, which seemed interminable to -them both, “willna’ ye let the sunlight enter your heart an’ be your old -bonnie sel’ once mair? It will make us all sae happy.” She put her hand -on his arm lovingly. “Why are ye sae changed, laddie? Dinna’ ye want me -to love ye any mair?” - -At the gentle touch of her fingers an uncontrollable wave of passionate -love and longing came over him, sweeping away all resolutions -resistlessly. “Oh, my Mary, my Mary,” he cried hoarsely. “I do want your -love, I do want it noo an’ forever,” and he clasped her lovingly to his -aching heart. Blissfully she lay in his strong arms while he showered -her flushed and happy face with the hungry, fervent, loving kisses which -he had denied himself so long, and murmured little caressing words of -endearment which filled her soul with rapture and happiness. “How I love -ye, Mary,” he breathed in her ear again and again as he held her close. - -“An’ how happy ye make me once mair, laddie,” she answered, nestling -against him lovingly. - -“An’ how happy we will——,” he began, then stopped pale and trembling, for -grim recollection had suddenly loomed up before him with all its train -of bitter, ugly facts; and conscience began to drum insistently into his -dulled ear. “Tell her the truth now, the whole truth,” it said. But the -voice of the tempter whispered persuasively, saying, “Why tell her now? -wait, let her be happy while she may, put it off as long as possible.” - -“What is it, Robbie?” cried Mary fearfully. “Tell me what is troublin’ -ye; dinna’ be afraid.” His bowed head bent lower and lower. - -“Oh, Mary, I’m sae unworthy, sae unworthy of all your pure thoughts, your -tender love,” he faltered despairingly, resolved to tell her all. “Ye -dinna’ ken all my weakness, my deception, and into what depths of sin I -have fallen.” She sought to interrupt him, but he continued rapidly, his -voice harsh with the nervous tension, his face pallid from the stress of -his emotions. “I have a confession to make ye——” - -“Nay, nay, laddie,” cried Mary, putting her hand over his trembling -lips. “Dinna’ tell me anything. I want nae confession from ye, except -that o’ your love,” and she smoothed his cheek tenderly. “Ye ken that is -music to my ears at all times, but if ye are deceivin’ me, if ye have na -always been true to me, an’ your vows, why, laddie, keep the knowledge -to yourself’. I am content noo, and ye ken happiness is such a fleetin’ -thing that I mean to cling to it as long as I can.” She took his hands -in both her own and held them close to her heart. “Ye ken, Robbie, ill -news travels apace and ’twill reach my ears soon enough,” she continued -with a mournful little quaver in her voice. “But no matter what comes, -what ye may do, my love for ye will overlook it all; I will see only your -virtues, my love, not your vices.” - -Robert bowed his head in heart-broken silence. Grief, shame, and remorse -like tongues of fiery flames were scorching and burning into his very -soul. Quietly they sat there engrossed in their thoughts, till the voice -of Mrs. Burns calling to them from the cottage to come to supper roused -them from their lethargy. - -“We’re comin’ right awa’,” answered Mary brightly. “Come, laddie, we -mustna’ keep the folks waitin’.” - -She took his listless hand and drew him gently to the door and into the -cottage. - -Silently they took their places at the table, around which the others -were already seated. - -“By the way,” said old blind Donald, the fiddler, who had dropped in on -his way to Mauchline for a bite and a cup, “Poosie Nancy told me to tell -ye, Mistress Burns, that she wa drop in to see ye this night.” - -“We’ll be glad to see her,” replied Mrs. Burns hospitably. - -“And Daddy Auld says he’ll be along, too,” continued Donald, grinning -broadly. “That is, if he isna’ too busy convertin’ souls.” - -“Convertin’ souls,” sneered Souter incredulously. - -“Aye, ye should see the Jolly Beggars he was haranguin’. They were -jumpin’, an’ rantin’, an’ singin’ like daft Methodists.” - -“The auld hypocrites!” cried Mrs. Burns, buttering a scone which she -placed in the old man’s tremulous hand. “They didna’ go to the manse for -conversion; ’tis a square meal they are after. They ken the kind old -heart o’ Daddy Auld.” - -Souter leaned back in his chair and smiled reminiscently. “That reminds -me o’ a guid story,” he began, chuckling. - -“Never mind that story noo,” remonstrated Mrs. Burns, who was in constant -dread of Souter’s risque stories. “That’ll keep.” - -“I never _can_ tell that damn story,” ejaculated Souter wrathfully. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -They had finished their meager supper, and now sat comfortably around the -fire, Mrs. Burns and Mary busy with their knitting, the men contentedly -smoking, while old Donald discordantly tuned up his fiddle. - -“Noo, Donald,” said Souter briskly, “play us something lively.” - -“Aye, I’ll play ye the Highland Fling, Souter Johnny, an’ ye can dance. -Come alang noo,” and he started to play vigorously, keeping time with his -foot. - -“Aye, get out on the floor, Souter,” said Gilbert, pulling him out of his -chair. - -“Nay, nay, lad,” expostulated Souter fretfully, “I be too old to fling -the toe noo.” - -“Go alang wi’ ye, mon,” retorted Mrs. Burns encouragingly; “a Scotsman, -and a Highlander besides, is ne’er too old to——” - -“To learn,” interrupted Gilbert brightly, swinging the old man to the -middle of the floor. “Let her go.” - -“I havena danced for years,” said Souter apologetically. Carefully -knocking the ashes out of his pipe he deposited it in the pocket of his -capacious waistcoat and proceeded to divest himself of his coat. “Ye ken -I was the champion dancer of my clan, Clan McDougal, when I was a young -lad,” he announced boastingly. “An’ mony a time I have cheered an’ amused -the lads, while tentin’ on the fields of Culloden, before the big battle. -An’ that reminds me o’ a guid——” - -“Never mind the story,” said Gilbert impatiently. “Gie us a dance.” - -After a few preliminary movements Souter caught the swinging measure of -the dance, and once started he limbered up surprisingly. On he danced -nimbly, and untiringly, soon ably proving to his delighted audience -that he had not forgotten his old-time accomplishment. “I’ll show these -Lowlanders what a Highlander can do,” thought the old man proudly. -Panting with excitement and eagerness he failed to hear the metallic -patter of horses’ hoofs drawing near the cottage. Nearer and nearer they -came unheeded by all save one. - -From his seat by the fireplace, where he sat in melancholy silence, -Robert heard the sound, but gave it no heed. Suddenly it ceased. He -raised his head to listen. Someone had surely stopped at the gate, he -thought, straining his ears eagerly, but the noise of the fiddle and the -dancing drowned all sound from without. He glanced quickly at the smiling -faces of the others as they good-naturally watched the dancer. “I must -hae been mistaken,” he muttered uneasily. Suddenly he leaned forward, -grasping his chair hard; surely he had heard his name faintly called. -He listened intently. Yes, there it was again; this time the voice was -nearer. A woman’s voice, too. What could it mean? He rose to his feet, -his heart thumping fiercely, his muscles alert and tense, his eyes fixed -on the door, his mind filled with gloomy presentiment. - -At that moment an imperative knock sounded loudly through the room, and -almost at the same time the door flew open violently, and Jean Armour -impetuously dashed in. Closing the door quickly behind her she leaned -back against it, pale and exhausted. Her riding habit of green and gold -was splashed and discolored with mud. The large hat with its gleaming -white plume hung limply over her shoulder, while her black disheveled -hair streamed over her face and down her back in bewildering confusion. -She had evidently ridden fast and furious, for she stood there with her -eyes closed, her hand on her heart, gasping for breath. - -Quickly Mrs. Burns led the exhausted girl to a seat. In a few moments -she raised her drooping head and with wild frightened eyes searched the -room till her gaze fell on Robert, who was leaning white and speechless -against the fireplace, a great fear in his heart. - -She rose quickly and going to him said in a tense, rapid whisper, -“Robert, my father knows all, but through no fault of mine. Some idle -gossip reached his ear to-day, and when he returned home and learned my -condition his rage was terrible. He cursed you like a madman, and would -have done me bodily harm had I remained within sight. But I feared for my -life, and fled before I had explained the truth to him. I have come to -you to protect me.” - -He listened to her in stony silence. The blow had fallen so suddenly, so -unexpectedly, it found him totally unprepared to ward off its paralyzing -effects. He tried to speak, but the words refused to leave his parched -tongue. He felt benumbed and cold, all the blood in his body seeming to -have suddenly congealed. As he stood there with the eyes of all riveted -upon him he felt like the veriest criminal that walked the earth. - -For a moment there was a tense silence. Jean stood there anxiously gazing -into Robert’s stricken face, as he vainly strove to utter a sound. Mary -had watched the little scene before her in growing wonder and alarm and -now leaned back against the wall, her heart beating with some unknown, -nameless fear. What did this highborn lady want with her laddie? she -asked herself jealously. - -[Illustration: “‘She is my wife, mither.’”] - -Mrs. Burns stood grimly waiting for some explanation of the scene she -had just witnessed, but had not heard nor understood. “Robert, my son,” -she said finally, her voice cold and firm, “what does Squire Armour’s -daughter want of ye?” There was no answer. “What is she to ye, Robert?” -she sternly insisted. Slowly he raised his head. As she saw his wild and -haggard face, from which all the life and youth had fled, she started -back in horror, a startled exclamation on her lips. - -With a despairing, heart-broken look at Mary’s wondering face, he bowed -his head and falteringly uttered the fatal words, “She is my wife, -mither.” - -Had a thunderbolt from a clear sky unroofed the humble cot, it would not -have created the consternation, the terror which those few words struck -to those loving hearts. - -Mrs. Burns was the first to rally from the shock. “Your wife?” she -repeated incredulously, looking from one to the other. - -With a cry of grief and pain Mary sank weak and trembling into a chair, -like a deer wounded unto death. She gazed at them heart-brokenly, while -her little hands nervously fluttered about her face. No, no, he could not -mean it. They were only joking, surely. “Not that, Robbie, ye dinna mean -that, dearie?” she gasped piteously, holding out a beseeching hand to -him. His bowed head bent lower. - -“Do ye mean ye have legally married this lass?” asked Gilbert eagerly. -Mary would be free then, he thought wildly. Free to be wooed and won. - -“We were married a few weeks ago,” answered Robert dully. “I had not the -courage to tell ye before.” - -“Besides,” interposed Jean, arranging her disordered toilet, “I wished to -keep the marriage from my father for a—a time.” She blushed crimson. - -“I willna believe my son ever married ye of his own free will,” cried -Mrs. Burns bitterly, “fine rich lady that ye are. He loves only that -sweet lass, Mary Campbell.” Quickly she reached Mary’s side, and, raising -the stricken child in her motherly arms, she kissed her tenderly and -pressed the golden head gently against her loving heart. - -Jean looked at them, a look of resentment in her flashing eyes. “I know -that full well,” she answered sullenly. “I know Robert hasn’t married -me because he wanted to, but because——” she looked down shame-faced. -“Because there was no alternative. Now you know the truth,” she concluded -bitterly. - -“Ye shameless creature!” cried Mrs. Burns, her eyes blazing with -indignation. “Ye have trapped him into this marriage, but ye shall na -stay beneath this roof, ye limmer,” and she glared at the flushed defiant -girl in righteous anger. - -“Mither, mither!” cried Robert distractedly, “dinna, for God’s sake; she -is my wife in truth, an’ she must stay wi’ me noo till I can prepare -anither hame for her. Dinna make it harder for me.” He gazed pleadingly -in his mother’s stern and angry face. - -Mary pressed her lips to the quivering cheek. “Mistress Burns,” she said -softly, “what is to be, will be. I forgive them both wi’ all my heart.” -She paused and sighed with gentle resignation. Then she continued, -“An’—an’ I hope they will both find peace in their new life.” She turned -quietly to Jean, who was nervously tapping her whip against her skirt. -“I ken ye’ll make Robert a good wife,” she said earnestly. “So dinna let -any thought o’ me sadden your heart, or—or yours, Robert.” She turned and -looked at him tenderly. “I—I forgive ye,” she whispered. Turning to Mrs. -Burns again, she continued pleadingly, “Ye must welcome Robert’s wife to -her new hame, Mistress Burns. We all maun make this a merry hame-comin’ -for—the—bride.” Her plaintive voice broke abruptly, and the burning tears -welled up to her eyes, but she dashed them quickly away and continued -bravely, a pathetic little smile hovering about her trembling lips, “I’ll -go out noo an’ make some fresh tea for ye, and ye’ll all stay right here, -till I come back, an’ Donald shall play for ye again—an’ we’ll—all—be—sae -merry—won’t w-we? I’ll bring it w-when—it’s quite—ready.” She smiled at -them through her tears. Then she took the teapot from the dresser and -softly left the room. - -“God bless her brave and noble heart,” breathed Robert brokenly. - -As she left the room Mrs. Burns drew herself sternly erect, and after a -moment’s hesitation turned slowly to Jean. “I bid ye welcome to Mossgiel -Farm,” she said coldly. “I am sorry I spoke so bitterly to ye just noo. -I—I will try to love ye as Robert’s wife, but noo I—I can only think o’ -Mary an’ her sorrow. I’ll leave ye for a bit; Mary may need me.” Her -voice faltered and broke, and with a sob of grief she hurriedly left the -room. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Ever since the morning she had received her marriage lines Jean had been -trying to summon up sufficient courage to tell her father the whole truth -about her secret marriage to Robert, to throw herself upon his mercy, -but each time when she had approached him in fear and trembling, her -courage had ignominiously failed her. She knew only too well her father’s -irascible temper and uncertain moods. And so days passed into weeks and -still she procrastinated, but she knew she could not conceal from his -observing eyes her condition much longer. But whether to confess all and -run the risk of being thrown from her father’s door like some abandoned -outcast, or to contrive some excuse to leave home to pay a visit to -some friend, and then, when it was all over, to return, that was the -question which disturbed her waking thoughts. If she did the latter, she -thought, she could easily have her marriage annulled and no one would be -the wiser. But did she really want to have her marriage annulled? she -asked herself thoughtfully. She didn’t understand herself at all these -days. He had strangely stirred her heart at their last meeting, to its -very depths. She knew he did not love her, that he loved the little -dairymaid, but almost imperceptibly a great change was taking place in -her feelings toward him. At times a great longing came over her to go -to him, throw herself at his feet and beg to share his hardships, his -poverty, with him. But she had not the courage, and so she battled with -the conflicting emotions that constantly beset her day and night. Her -temper soon became moody and uncertain, she was in constant fear of her -mother’s anxious, watchful eyes, and yet she felt she would go daft if -she remained alone in her chamber with her disturbing thoughts. So day -after day she could be found in her saddle madly galloping over the -country, trying to get away, far away, from her trouble. But all in vain; -it was always before her; there was no escaping it. But at last the day -came when she knew she must make her decision, and almost in desperation -she decided on her course of procedure. Hastily galloping home, she left -her horse at the door, and going to her room, scribbled a short note to -her father and left it on the table in his study. Then she had slipped -guiltily past the room where her mother sat peacefully sewing, and sped -swiftly along the hall to the door. As she reached it, it burst inward -and she staggered back half fainting, for there on the threshold stood -her father, his face white with rage, his jaw set and determined. He -seized her roughly by the arm, and thrusting her back into the house, -had taken one understanding look at her figure in its tight-fitting -habit, then with an outburst of bitter anger and shame he cursed her -and the author of her disgrace, cursed her like a madman, cursed her -till he was spent with the force of his passion. She tried to explain, -to tell him the truth, that she was a wife, but the words froze on her -lips. His words and manner struck terror to her very soul; she feared -for her very life’s safety. With all her despairing strength she freed -herself from his clutch and stood cowering, panting, her hands raised to -shield herself from the blow she expected every moment to fall on her -defenseless body from the insane man. As he approached her with hand -upraised, she gave one quick shriek, one wild look around and darting -under his arm reached the door. Quickly she opened it and sped like a -swallow to the side of her waiting horse. With one bound she was on his -back, and away she galloped like the wind, leaving her astonished father -standing in the doorway shaking his fist after her in impotent anger. - -She had given rein to her horse, not heeding or caring where he took her. -Her one and only thought was to get away, far away; so she rode on and -on, over brook and brush, through bog and mire till gradually her fear -had subsided, and, reining in her horse, she looked around, and with a -thrill of joy and wonder she saw Mossgiel Farm in the distance. Surely -fate had guided her horse’s footsteps in this direction, she thought -eagerly. Her course was clear now, she would go to him, to her husband, -he would protect her. So she had continued her journey to the cottage, -where she brought naught but misery and sorrow to its inmates. - -As Mrs. Burns left the room Jean gazed after her in bitter silence. She -wished she had not come. She knew she was not welcome. Far better to have -faced her father’s anger. “But the die is cast. I have made my bed,” -she told herself wearily. She realized how futile it was to repine over -the past, and she felt too exhausted, too miserably unhappy to think of -the future. She would stay here perhaps a night, then she didn’t know, -couldn’t think what would happen. At all events she could never return -to her father’s home now. He had spurned her from him, and she was not -wanted here. Nobody wanted her now. Her lips quivered convulsively and -big tears of self-pity rolled quietly down her pale cheeks. - -Gilbert looked uneasily from his brother’s grief-stricken face to the -weary, wan face of the bride. How long were they going to sit there -side by side without a word to each other? he thought uneasily. He felt -a great wave of pity well up in his heart for the unwelcome, unloved -addition to their family. True she was mostly to blame for her present -misfortune. Her imprudence, her misconduct had been well known to many, -before his brother had gone to Mauchline to live. He felt sorry for -Robert, too, even while he bitterly reproached him for being the author -of Mary’s unhappiness. They must make the best of things now, he thought -philosophically. “Ye had better take off your bonnet, lassie,” he said -kindly, breaking the oppressive silence. “Ye’ll be staying here the -night.” She raised her head and looked at him with flashing eyes. - -“Full well I know that all here hate and despise me,” she burst forth -bitterly, not heeding his request. - -Robert slowly raised his head and looked at her. There was sorrow and -compassion in his dark melancholy eyes. “Jean,” he said quietly, “our -lives have been linked togither by a stern, inexorable fate. We have both -been guilty of a grievous sin, and noo we must face the results bravely.” -He rose and walked to her and stood humbly by her side. “I hope ye’ll -forgive me, Jean, for wreckin’ your life and plungin’ ye into sae much -misery.” - -Slowly Jean bowed her head, her face flushing guiltily. Surely she had -the more need to ask his forgiveness. She had not expected to find such -nobility of character, and it moved her deeply. - -“There is naught to forgive,” she cried in a low stifled voice. “I alone -am to blame. I am unfit, unworthy to be your wife. Oh, I’m so miserable, -so unhappy,” and she burst into tears. - -Souter led old Donald silently out of the room. There was nothing either -one could say to the wretched couple, so they sat outside and talked -it all over in the way old men have. They had not been seated long, -however, when they espied coming toward them, at a furious gallop, -a horse and rider. As they drew near Souter perceived with sudden -apprehension that it was none other than Squire Armour. He rose anxiously -to his feet. - -“Do ye ken wha’ it is, Souter?” inquired Donald in a quavering voice. - -“It’s Squire Armour himsel’,” whispered Souter cautiously. - -“Ma certie!” ejaculated Donald, shaking his white locks in mild alarm. - -“I’d better warn the lass,” said Souter hastily, as the Squire drew up to -the gate. Going to the door he quickly told them of the newcomer, then -turned to intercept the irate visitor, who was coming swiftly up the walk. - -“Heavens, my father here!” cried Jean in a frightened whisper. “Oh, -I dare not face his wrath. Protect me, Robert,” and she clung to him -fearfully. - -“Out o’ my way, mon!” they heard the harsh voice of Squire Armour -shouting. “Out o’ my way,” and pushing aside the courageous little man he -strode wrathfully into the room. - -“Weel, I’ll stay and see the fun through,” said Souter to himself grimly. - -“So, my lass,” cried the old Squire triumphantly, “I’ve found ye just -where I expected ye’d be, in the arms o’ your dissolute lover. Come awa’, -ye shameless bairn.” - -He started toward her, but Robert passed her quickly behind him. - -“Keep back, Squire Armour,” he said firmly. “I’m nae a mild-mannered man, -an’ ye may learn it to your cost.” - -Squire Armour glanced at him savagely. “Dinna ye dare talk to me, ye -libertine, ye blasphemous rhymster. Ye dare to stand there wi’ my -daughter, proclaiming her dishonor to my very eyes?” - -“There is no dishonor, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “for your -daughter is—my wife.” - -“Your wife!” echoed the old man, staggering back in amazement. “I’ll nae -believe it. It’s a lie. I’d rather see my daughter disgraced forever than -be your wife.” - -“Father, are you mad?” gasped Jean in horrified accents. - -“An’ ye an Elder in the Kirk, a so-called ‘God-fearin’ man’!” cried -Robert scathingly, his eyes blazing with scorn. “I tell ye, Squire -Armour, she is my wife, an’ all your bitter, unreasoning hatred o’ me -canna’ alter that unhappy fact.” - -For a moment the old man stood gazing at them in helpless rage. Then he -turned to Jean, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “What proofs -have ye?” he asked hoarsely. - -“I have my marriage lines, father,” she answered quickly. - -“Where were ye married?” - -“Why, father, we——” began Jean hesitatingly. - -“Was it in the Kirk?” he interrupted sternly. - -“No,” she faltered. “It was——” - -“Not in the Kirk?” he cried, his voice rising menacingly. “Who was the -minister? Who married ye?” - -“There was no minister, father.” - -“Nae minister!” he exclaimed in horror. - -“Wait, father, you don’t understand,” cried Jean quickly; “’twas a Scotch -marriage; ye ken what that is—and,” she bowed her head guiltily, “why it -is. And here are my lines signed by Robert acknowledging me as his wife.” -She took from the bosom of her gown a folded paper which she handed to -her father. - -He read it through carefully. “This is na legal or binding,” he exclaimed -angrily. - -“’Tis perfectly legal, Squire Armour,” replied Robert calmly, “even if it -is irregular, and is as binding as though we were married in Kirk.” - -“It shall be set aside,” fumed the old man. “I will not have it so. Ye -shall both renounce it, I tell ye.” - -“Oh, father,” cried Jean tearfully, going to his side. “’Tis too late -now; would you shame me in the eyes of the world?” - -“Do these few written lines make your shame any the less?” he shouted -wrathfully. “Will not all the neighbors know why he had to give them to -ye? Ye would throw awa’ your life on this poverty-stricken, shiftless -rhymster, but ye shall not do it; ye must give him up, do ye hear?” and -he raised his arm menacingly. - -“No, no, no, father,” she exclaimed frantically, falling on her knees -beside him; “I cannot give him up now, I cannot.” After all the weary -weeks of anxious fears and doubts she knew at last that she had found -her heart, and now asked no greater happiness than to be allowed to -remain with her husband to share his humble life, to be the mother of his -family. All the old ambitious thoughts were gone forever. She wondered -that they ever existed. - -“Ye shameless bairn, ye must an’ shall!” he replied fiercely. “This is -the end o’ it all,” and he vindictively tore into little bits the paper -Jean had given into his hands. “We’ll hear nae mair of that, my lass, an’ -I swear ye shall never see Robert Burns again, make up your mind to that.” - -With a cry of despair Jean sank half fainting into a chair. - -As he witnessed Squire Armour’s fiendish act Robert’s heart gave a great -bound that sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. The marriage -lines were destroyed; then he was free, free! Oh, the music in that word! -Free to do as he wished. A sob of anguish caused him to look around at -the kneeling figure of the unfortunate girl. Quickly the eager light died -out of his face as he noted her suffering. Going to the kneeling girl -he raised her gently to her feet, and holding her by the hand faced the -inhuman father. “Squire Armour, ye would condemn your ain flesh an’ blood -to shame an’ disgrace because o’ your hatred for me,” he said quietly, -“but it shall not be. I defy ye. Come, Jean, we will go to the Kirk at -once and Daddy Auld will marry us.” They turned to go, but the old man -stepped between them and the door, his arms upraised, his eyes wild and -glaring. - -“I’d sooner see her in her grave than bear the accursed name of Robert -Burns,” he cried with solemn intensity. “Great though her imprudence -has been, she can still look to a higher, an’ better connection than a -marriage with ye.” Turning to Jean he continued sternly, “Speak, lass, -say that ye’ll obey me, or the bitter curse o’ your parents will haunt -an’ follow ye all the rest o’ your days.” - -“Think of the disgrace, father,” wailed the unhappy girl, clinging to his -arm beseechingly. - -“We’ll forget and forgive it all if ye’ll come back,” he replied, the -great love for his child revealing itself in his eager tones. “Ye’re nae -longer that man’s wife. Come an’ none will ever know o’ your dishonor.” - -“My God, mon!” exclaimed Robert in horrified accents, “where is your -father’s pride, your ain honor, your manhood!” - -But Squire Armour heeded him not. “Come, my daughter, come,” he said -tenderly, leading the weak, wavering girl to the door. - -“Ye canna expect to keep this a secret from the world, Squire Armour,” -cried Robert indignantly. “Matters have gone too far for that; soon your -daughter’s name will be blasted irretrievably, while mine will be coupled -with that of blackguard. It must not be. Ye must let Jean go to the Kirk -wi’ me this very night or I shall inform the Elders in the Kirk.” - -“Ye’ll have no time to turn informer, my laddie,” snarled Squire Armour, -turning on him fiercely; “for I mean to have ye brought before the -Kirk sessions, an’ ye’ll be punished as ye deserve for the sin ye have -committed, an’ ye shall sit on the cutty stool, where all your friends -an’ neighbors can jeer an’ scoff at ye. This very night will I send the -parish officers after ye, Robert Burns. Ye can take this warning or no, -just as ye please, but I hope they find ye here. Come, lass, we’ll go -hame to your mither, noo.” He drew the terrified, half-fainting girl -firmly through the door and down the path to the road. - -“Ye’re an old hypocrite!” hooted Souter, following them to the gate, -where he stood shaking his fist angrily after the departing visitors, and -shouting his frank opinion of the Squire in no mild or flattering terms. - -“I alone am to blame,” cried Robert despairingly, as he watched them -gallop madly away into the threatening night. “An’ only the bitterest -sorrow, the most poignant grief will I know until that wrong is righted.” - -“What will ye do noo, lad?” asked Mrs. Burns, breaking in upon the -melancholy sadness which enveloped him like a pall. (She had entered the -room in time to hear Squire Armour’s parting injunction.) “Ye heard what -the Squire threatened. Oh, dinna disdain the littleness of prudence, my -son.” - -“I willna, mother,” replied Robert dully, after a pause. “I have decided -to go awa’ from Mossgiel.” - -“Go awa’?” she repeated fearfully. “Nay, nay, laddie, ye mustna! I fear -for ye in your present state o’ mind.” - -“I must, mother,” he answered wildly. “I willna sit on the cutty stool -to be made the laughing stock o’ the whole neighborhood, to bring shame -on ye all.” He walked restlessly up and down the room as he continued -feverishly, “I willna stay here to skulk from covert to covert under all -the terrors of a jail, for I ken that in a little while the merciless -pack of the law will be baying at my heels like bloodhounds.” He turned -to her suddenly, “Mother, I mean to leave Scotland, perhaps forever.” - -“Oh, nay, nay, my bairn; I canna, I willna, let ye go,” answered his -mother, clinging to him passionately. - -“There, there, mither, dinna make it harder for me.” He put his arm -around her tenderly and pressed her to him for a moment. “Noo, mother,” -he said quietly, “will ye pack my chest? I have nae time to spare,” and -he led her gently to the door. - -“Where will ye be goin’?” inquired Gilbert. - -“To the Indies, to Jamaica,” replied Robert quickly. “Ye ken Dr. Douglas -has a place for me there as overseer of his plantation. He has offered it -to me mony times.” He turned in nervous haste to his mother, who stood -in the doorway anxiously watching him. “Hurry, mither, please, I am in -torture o’ mind.” - -“Very well, laddie,” she answered sorrowfully. “God will direct your -footsteps aright,” and she closed the door behind her and quickly made -her way to his chamber. - -“Will ye see Mary before ye go, Robert?” asked Gilbert. - -He felt an infinite pity for his brother, who was leaving behind him -everything he held dear. - -“If she will come to me,” faltered Robert. “Tell her I’m goin’ an’ that -I will go wi’ a lighter heart if she bids me godspeed. Watch o’er an’ -protect her, Gilbert,” he continued, placing his hand on his brother’s -shoulder. “An’ I hope one day she may forget faithless Robert Burns, -an’—an’ ye, Gilbert, will be made happy.” He turned away as he finished, -grief gnawing at his heart. - -An eager light flashed in Gilbert’s eyes as he answered fervently, “I -would lay doon my life to serve her,” and with a quick look into the -averted face he quietly left the room. - -Mechanically Rob took his bonnet from the peg and throwing his long plaid -around him went out into the air, and silently, sorrowfully he stood -there watching the gloomy clouds that hung low in the heavens through -eyes misty with tears. His soul was filled with unutterable sorrow at -the coming parting, with dread of the unknown future to be passed alone -in a strange, inhospitable foreign land. Oh, the agony of that thought, -alone! Suddenly there came floating softly, peacefully, borne on the -back of the south wind, which was blowing gently against his face, the -alluring, seductive voice of the Goddess Muse. Insistently she urged her -way into the dulled and listless ear of the grief-stricken man. Not for -long was she denied admission, however. With a cry of joy, that even in -that dreaded hour of parting his Goddess had not deserted him, he eagerly -opened the book he held in his hand, his favorite book, “Tristam Shandy” -by Sterne, and wrote quickly, lovingly on the flyleaf the impassioned -words which were being whispered in his ear. Hungrily the pencil sped -over the paper, till, with a sigh of regret, he dropped his hand, the -voice was hushed, the message was finished. As he stood there eagerly -reading his verses by the light which streamed through the window, the -door softly opened and Mary came swiftly to his side, her pure face -pitiful in its childlike sorrow. - -“Is it true ye are gang awa’ frae Scotland, Robbie?” she asked -breathlessly. He bowed his head. “Oh, my heart beats heavy for ye, -laddie.” There was infinite compassion in her voice. “But ye maun be -brave noo if ever ye were.” She nestled her little hand in his. He -clasped it fervently. - -“O, Mary, my Highland lassie!” he cried passionately, “I want to hear ye -say before I go that ye forgive me for the sorrow I have brought into -your pure young life.” - -“Hush, laddie,” she answered softly, “there is naught to forgive; ye had -to do your duty like an honorable mon. I hae been very happy wi’ ye, -laddie, an’ the memory o’ that happiness will be wi’ me always.” She -leaned against him for a brief moment, then slowly drew herself away -and looked tenderly up into his face. “In this sad parting hour,” she -faltered, “I can tell ye without shame that I love ye wi’ a’ my being, -an’ will until I dee.” - -“Heaven bless ye, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. “The thought of your love -will gie me courage to bear my exile bravely.” - -“Exile!” she repeated shuddering. “Oh, what a drear word, to think ye -must be exiled in your noble youth, that ye maun leave your hame, your -country, to live alone in some foreign clime.” The tears streamed down -her pallid cheeks. “We will a’ miss ye sair, lad,” she continued bravely, -“and we will pray for ye, an’—an’—oh, ’twill be sae hard to say good-by, -perhaps forever.” She threw her arms about his neck and clung to him -passionately. - -He held the weeping child in his strong, loving embrace, his face close -to hers. “Oh, why was I born, only to bring sorrow, pain an’ disgrace to -those I hold dear?” he cried in an agony of grief and remorse. “Bitterly -am I atonin’ for my act o’ imprudence; an exile, a failure,” he gave a -mirthless little laugh; “aye, a failure, for e’en the hopes of success -held out to me have a’ vanished in disappointment. Oblivion has enveloped -me in its darkening pall, for whichever way I turn naught but darkest -gloom, with not e’en a ray of light, meets my wretched gaze.” A flash of -lightning pierced the darkness, followed shortly by a heavy, prolonged -roll of thunder. She nestled closer to his side. - -“Be not discouraged, laddie,” she said; “’tis always darkest before dawn, -an’ who kens what may yet happen?” - -“Ah, nae, nae,” he interrupted with a despairing shake of his head, “e’en -the elements conspire against me, for I maun face this coming storm on -foot to reach Greenock. ’Tis all a part of my just punishment.” The wind -had risen and with it a driving mist which soon enveloped them in its -damp embrace. But they heeded it not. - -“Bide a wee, dinna go to-night,” she pleaded, while the wind tossed her -tangled curls seductively around his neck and in his sorrowing face. -“Listen to the wind. Oh,’tis a bad night to start on a journey,” and she -clung to him tighter, her skirts flapping about his limbs like some live -thing, thrilling him by their touch. - -“Before ye came out, lassie,” he replied quietly, stilling the tumult -in his heart, “I wrote some verses in this book as a parting song; how -appropriate they are for this occasion ye will see. Listen,” and holding -the book up to the light he began to read: - - “The gloomy night is gathering fast, - Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; - Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, - I see it driving o’er the plain; - Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, - I think upon the stormy wave, - Where many a danger I must dare, - Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr; - ’Tis not the surging billows’ roar, - ’Tis not that fatal deadly shore, - Tho’ death in every shape appear, - The wretched have no more to fear; - But round my heart the ties are bound, - That heart transpierced with many a wound; - These bleed afresh, these ties I tear, - To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.” - -The wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree was shrieking and -groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the -tempest. The Ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky -banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the -lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard. - -Unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with -its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his -listener with unutterable sadness: - - “Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, - Her heathy moors and winding vales; - The scenes where wretched fancy roves, - Pursuing past unhappy loves. - Farewell my friends, farewell my foes, - My peace with thee, my love with those; - The bursting tears my heart declare, - Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.” - -As his voice died away he heard the sound of sobbing, and looked up, to -see his mother standing in the doorway. - -“Come awa’, lad, come in out of the night air!” she called tenderly, -controlling her sobs. - -Silently they entered the cottage. Robert crossed the room to his -brother’s side. - -“Gilbert,” he said quietly, “ye take the songs an’ verses ye will find -on my table an’ send them to Mr. Aiken. Mayhap they will bring you in a -bit o’ money to help ye in your struggle wi’ poverty, an’ forgive me -that I maun leave ye to battle wi’ misfortune alone.” Turning to Mary he -continued, lovingly, “Mary, lass, will ye accept my Bible as a parting -gift?” She looked at him with shining eyes. “Ye’ll find it in the oak box -with the glass lid in the attic.” - -“I’ll prize it for aye, Robert,” she sobbed gratefully, pressing his -hand, “an’ our prayers will follow ye to that far distant land, where I -hope success awaits ye.” - -He drew her to him gently and pressed a kiss on her pure brow. “Farewell, -lassie, may ye be happy,” he breathed fervently. Turning again to Gilbert -he spoke rapidly, “Farewell, brother, give my love to the dear brothers -an’ sisters when they come hame.” He shook his hand warmly. - -“God keep ye, Robert,” answered Gilbert quietly. - -Gently Robert drew his weeping mother into his arms. Tenderly he pulled -down the apron which she had flung over her head to hide her sorrow, and -wiped away her tears. “Noo, mother,” he whispered brokenly, “I—I maun say -good-by; the day has drawn to its close an’ I maun start on my journey to -Greenock. Dinna greet, dear mither.” He let her weep on unconstrainedly a -few moments. - -Finally her bitter sobbing ceased and looking up into his face she cried -passionately, “I canna give ye up, my son, never to see ye again.” She -took his cheeks lovingly between her hands. - -“Ye’re making it hard for me to go, mither,” he cried, utterly -distracted. “But the die is cast, my hands are on the plow, an’ I canna -turn back noo. Ye ken there is naught but disappointment an’ disgrace -to look forward to here, an’——” Suddenly a loud cheer from outside the -cottage interrupted him. They listened in silent wonder. Above the noise -of the wind, which had risen to a gale, and the swish of the rain, which -now beat in swirling gusts about the cottage, came the voices of Souter -and Donald shouting and cheering like boys on a frolic. Quickly they -opened the door. A gust of wind dashed the rain fiercely in their faces. -Through the mist and gloom they could vaguely make out the outlines of a -coach standing at the gate, which had approached unheard in the storm. - -“Robert, Robert!” cried Souter, looming up out of the darkness and -looking decidedly weatherbeaten. “’Tis news I have, great and glorious -news.” - -“News?” they all repeated in wonder. - -“What is it, mon?” asked Rob, trembling with excitement. - -“It can speak for itsel’,” replied Souter gleefully, “for here it is.” He -pointed behind him. They looked down the path and saw rapidly approaching -the door a tall man, enveloped in a long cloak, escorted by a servant in -livery. At that moment the light fell on his wet face and they started -forward in amazement. - -“Lord Glencairn?” cried Robert incredulously, his heart throbbing with a -strange new-born hope. - -“Aye, my lad, and near drowned,” laughed the visitor genially. Robert -grasped his outstretched hand and drew him to the door. - -With words of welcome and delight they made room for him to enter. -Quickly he removed his wet cloak from his shoulders and threw it to his -servant, who hung it beside the fire, while descanting on the inclemency -of the weather. Nervously and anxiously they waited for the great man to -speak his errand. - -Presently he turned from the fireplace, and, addressing Robert, he said -brightly, “Well, Mr. Burns, you see I have not forgotten you.” - -“Oh, my lord,” faltered Robert, his face white with suppressed feeling, -“I—I had despaired of seein’ you mair; do ye—bring me—hope? Is it—am -I——” his faltering voice stopped abruptly, but his eager eyes continued -to search the noble face which was looking so kindly into his, as if he -would draw the news from him. - -“It is good news,” answered Lord Glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you -are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already -have become the rage in Edinburgh; the name of Robert Burns is on the -tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.” - -“Thank God,” cried Mary softly, a look of rapture on her face. - -Mrs. Burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “Oh, -laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly. - -For a moment Robert stood there speechless, a look of incredulous wonder -on his face. “My lord,” he faltered at last, “can it be true, what you’re -telling me, that my songs are—accepted, read an’—praised in Edinburgh?” -Lord Glencairn bowed. “Oh, sir,” he continued, with a nervous catch in -his voice, “it seems too good to be true, too good.” - -Gradually the warm color came back to the pale face, the hurried -breathing, which seemed almost to smother him, became calmer, the -nervous, excited tension relaxed, and, with a smile of rapture and -content on his upturned face, he exclaimed fervently, “At last my hopes -and ambitions are realized, the bright sunlight of success has crowned my -efforts; my verses are known an’ loved in Edinburgh! Oh, do ye hear that, -my loved ones?” He stretched out his arms lovingly to them. “Nae mair -poverty for us noo, mither, nae—nor disappointments.” He turned to Lord -Glencairn, who was being assisted into his cloak. “Oh, sir, I canna tell -ye what is in my heart,” he continued earnestly, “but ’tis overflowing -wi’ love an’ gratitude to ye.” - -“There, there, my lad, time is precious,” replied Lord Glencairn kindly, -buttoning up his cloak. “’Tis late and we have far to go and the -postchaise is awaiting us. I came here not only to bring you news, Mr. -Burns, but to take you back with me to Edinburgh.” He laughed heartily at -the look of startled amazement that appeared on the faces before him. - -“To Edinburgh!” gasped Robert unbelievingly. - -“Aye, lad,” replied his lordship earnestly, his eyes flashing with -admiration for the modest young genius. “To Edinburgh, where fame and -fortune await you, where society stands with outstretched arms to receive -you as a conquering hero come to claim his own. To the capital city, -where all unite in paying homage to the wonderful genius of Robert Burns, -our Scottish Bard. Will you come?” and he held out his hand invitingly to -the wondering lad, who was gazing at him, his soul in his eyes. - -“Am I dreaming?” he cried slowly, looking about him for some confirmation -of his fears. “Go to Edinburgh wi’ ye, sir, as the Bard of Scotland? O -God, can this be true? My wildest hopes ne’er held out such dreams o’ -greatness, such happiness.” His voice vibrated with feeling. He paused -and took a deep breath, then he continued joyfully, all the sorrows of -the past forgotten in his excitement, “A few moments ago, my lord, I -was bidding farewell to these, my loved ones, forever. I was about to -start for the Indies, a wretched exile, a disappointed failure, and noo -fate once mair alters my destiny.” With a glad laugh he seized Lord -Glencairn’s outstretched hand, and, turning to his loved ones, he cried, -his voice ringing out clear and strong, a conscious thrill of pride -running through it, “Nae more tears, mither, except those of happiness, -nae more sorrow or care, for I can leave ye all wi’ a light heart noo, -wi’ joy instead o’ sadness. ’Tis true I go from here an outcast, but I’ll -return to ye a hero.” - - - - -BOOK II - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -The scene that opened on our hero in Edinburgh was altogether new, and in -a variety of other respects highly interesting, especially to one of his -disposition of mind. To use an expression of his own, he “found himself -suddenly translated from the veriest shades of life,” into the presence, -and indeed into the society, of a number of persons previously known to -him by report as of the highest distinction in his country. From those -men of letters in general his reception was particularly flattering. -And they interested themselves collectively and individually in the -cultivation of his genius. - -In Edinburgh literature and fashionable society are a good deal mixed. -Our Bard was an acceptable guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, -and received from female beauty and elegance those flattering attentions -above all others most grateful to him. A taste for letters is not always -conjoined with habits of temperance and regularity, and Edinburgh at this -period contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of men of considerable -talents, devoted to social excesses, in which their talents were wasted -and debased. - -Robert entered into several parties of this description with his usual -vehemence. His generous affections, his ardent eloquence, his brilliant -and daring imagination fitted him to be the idol of such associations. -The sudden alteration of his habits of life operated on him physically as -well as morally. The humble fare of the Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged -for the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and naturally the effect of -this change could not be inconsiderable. He saw the danger, and at times -formed resolutions to guard against it, but he had embarked on the tide -of dissipation and was borne along its stream. Some six months after -his triumphant entrance into the city he had returned to Mossgiel for a -fleeting visit to his home, and to assist his brother, who had taken upon -himself the entire support of their aged mother, and who was struggling -with many difficulties on the farm of Mossgiel. It will easily be -conceived with what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his -sisters, and brothers. He had left them poor and friendless; he returned -to them high in public estimation and easy circumstances. He returned to -them unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them -to the uttermost farthing the pittance that fortune had bestowed. He -had been keenly disappointed not to find Mary there. He learned, to his -sorrow, that she had gone back to the Highlands shortly after he left -for Edinburgh. He felt that she was lost to him now forever, for, while -his heart prompted him to hurry to her side, reason told him that the -visit would but fill her cup of sorrow to the brim. For, believing as he -did, that he was still bound to Jean in spite of the destruction of her -marriage lines, he knew he would only have to part from her again, to -leave her there with her sad thoughts, her loneliness, while he returned -to the gay life, where it was so easy to forget or at least to still the -voice of sorrow. Having remained with them a few days he proceeded again -to Edinburgh, first stopping off at Mauchline to call at the home of -Squire Armour, only to be met with curses and to be driven from the door -by the stern, unyielding man. - -Robert returned to Edinburgh, his heart filled with bitterness and -sorrow. For a while he brooded over his troubles, which threatened to -plunge him into a state of extreme melancholy. But at last resentment -and anger crowded out all other thoughts, and it was not long before -he succeeded in drowning recollection in the midst of the society and -dissipation of the metropolis. - -A year passed by, during which time he had vainly tried to get word to -Jean Armour. He had heard that she had given birth to twins, and the -thought that they were without the protection of a father’s name filled -him with grief and remorse. Time and again he had written her, only to -have his letters returned unopened. Finally he had received a letter -from her father, stating that “the children were dead and that Jean -had quite forgotten him, and was about to be joined in wedlock with a -neighboring rich farmer; that now he hoped Robert would leave him and his -daughter in peace,” etc., etc. He laid down the letter with a thrill of -joy stirring his blood. Free at last! He had done his duty as a man of -honor, and now, after all the bitter heartache and the long separation, -he was free to marry his little sweetheart. “Oh, thank God!” he cried -aloud, in an ecstasy of joy. “Thank God, the miserable tangle in our -lives will soon be straightened.” He had long entertained a desire to -visit those parts of his native country which were so celebrated in the -rural songs of Scotland, and he would now gratify that desire with Mary’s -home as the objective point. As soon as arrangements could be made he -started for the Highlands on horseback, accompanied by a friend, one Will -Nichol, and, his fame having preceded him, they were royally entertained -on their journey through the country. Finally they arrived in Dornoch, -where Mary was living quietly with her sister, and soon the long parted -lovers were clasped in each other’s arms. Later that day he told her the -glorious news of his release, his freedom from all ties, told her of -his undying love, and swore that never again should they be parted in -this life. And Mary with a prayer of thankfulness in her faithful heart, -blushingly gave her willing consent to a speedy marriage. The next day -they all returned by easy stages to Edinburgh. Mrs. Dunlop, an old friend -of Robert’s, took the country maiden under her protecting wing and gave -her a home until the marriage could be solemnized, the date having been -set one month from the time of their arrival. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -John Anderson, the proprietor of the “Bull’s Head,” stood gazing -wrathfully upon the scene of disorder which met his eyes as he opened -the door of the sitting-room of his distinguished lodger’s apartments. -It was early evening, and still that lodger remained in bed, although he -had been called at different intervals throughout the day by the irate, -though kind-hearted, landlord himself. “Dear—dear—dear,” he muttered to -himself, as he arranged the furniture, “I’ll just give Robbie a bit o’ -my mind.” He went to the door of the sleeping apartment and looked in. -“Sleepin’ like a bairn,” he said softly, “an’—an’ wi’ his boots on. Ma -certie!” He raised his hands in horror. “Weel, I’m glad ye’re nae under -the bed. Ah, weel, young blood must hae its course. I mind I was young -mysel’, an’ if I do say it I could drink mair whusky than any mon in the -toon. Oh, those were happy days,” and he sang softly to himself, as he -continued his work about the room: - - “We are na fou’ - We’re nat that fou’, - But just a droppie in our ee. - The cock may craw, - The day may daw’, - An’ ay we’ll taste the barley bree.” - -A knock on the door interrupted his song. - -“Weel, who is it?” he called impatiently. - -“Open the door,” replied a female voice eagerly. - -“A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He -swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady -to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the -extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head -with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room -with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings, -through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face. - -“I—I thought—isn’t Mr. Burns at home?” she stammered uneasily. - -“Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He -had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly -women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol. - -The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she -retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?” - -John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his -suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie -wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee -sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly. - -She flashed him an angry look. “Make your mind easy on that score, my -good fellow,” she retorted icily. “I have called to interview Mr. Burns -on an important matter. Is he at home?” - -“Aye; he is in there asleep,” replied John, pointing to a door beside the -large book cabinet, which nearly occupied one side of the room. - -“Asleep!” she repeated incredulously. “Lud, he retires uncommon early for -a gallant,” and there was a note of disappointment in her deep contralto -voice. - -“Early is it?” said John, with a knowing smile. “Faith, he hasna been up -this day.” - -“What?” she ejaculated in horror. “Not all day? Then you must awaken him -immediately. I must have speech with him at once,” and she spread her -voluminous draperies over the wide lounge and calmly seated herself. “Do -you hear?” she cried impatiently, as John made no move. - -“I hae excellent hearin’, mum,” replied John carelessly, “but I ken when -I’m well off, an’ I hae nae desire to feel the toe o’ Robert’s boot.” - -“A pest on your stubbornness, fool,” she cried angrily, springing to her -feet. - -“An’ I hae my doubts o’ a lass who comes to a mon’s lodgings at night,” -continued John, resenting her impatience. “It’s na respectable.” - -She looked him over insolently, then shrugged her shoulders. “I protest, -landlord,” she replied, in a mocking tone, “I am quite respectable, even -if I am here unchaperoned. But, Lud, I like not conventionalities, and -this adventure suits my madcap spirit well.” She walked to the door of -the sleeping chamber and was about to open it, when his voice arrested -her. - -“I ken it all the time,” he cried indignantly. “Ye’re a brazen hussy.” - -“Landlord!” she gasped in astonishment. - -“An’ ye can leave my inn,” continued John, now thoroughly aroused. “We -are respectable, if ye are na.” - -“Peace, fool!” she exclaimed furiously. “I am Lady Glen——” she stopped -and bit her lips angrily at the indiscreet slip of her tongue. Suddenly -a daring thought entered her mind. One glance at his face told her that -he had not caught the name. To think was to act with my lady. Then she -continued glibly, “I am Lady Nancy Gordon, daughter of the Duke of -Gordon, of Gordon Castle. It will be all over town in a day,” she thought -with malicious satisfaction. - -John staggered back as though he had been shot. “Ye Lady Nancy?” he -gasped in amazement. “Oh, my lady, I ask your pardon.” - -“’Tis not easily granted, numskull,” replied the imperious beauty, her -black eyes flashing dangerously. The sound of a carriage rolling over the -cobble stones suddenly arrested her attention. For a moment she listened -intently, then, with a startled exclamation, she turned to John and said -in a frightened whisper, “’Fore heaven! if it should be my husband—my -father, I mean, in pursuit of me.” She ran hastily to the window from -where a view of the street could be obtained and threw open the casement. - -“It would serve ye right, my lady,” said John to himself. - -“Great heavens! ’tis my uncle, Sir William Creech!” she gasped. Then she -said aloud, “Landlord, ’tis my father, as I feared! Oons! what a scrape -I’m in.” She closed the shutter hastily. - -“’Twill ruin your reputation to be found here at night, my lady,” cried -John concernedly, trotting nervously to the window. - -“O Lud,” she replied airily, “I’m not concerned over my reputation, ’tis -already torn to ribbons by my dear friends. ’Tis my—my father’s wrath I -fear. He is like to do some mischief.” An imperious knocking sounded on -the door below. - -“He has found ye, lassie,” cried old John excitedly. “Go down to him; -dinna let him find ye here in Robbie’s chamber. Ye ken the blame will all -fall on the lad,” and he sought to escort her to the door, but she evaded -his outstretched hand with laughing unconcern. - -“Nay, nay, my good fellow. I protest, I will not see him,” she exclaimed, -with reckless abandon. She would keep up the impersonation till the end. -Another such chance to blast her enemy’s reputation would not come to her -in a lifetime, she thought wickedly. “Listen,” she cried impetuously. “My -father, the Duke of Gordon, while he admires the poetry of Mr. Burns, -does not admire the man himself, consequently he did not send him an -invitation to attend the masked ball which is given at Gordon Castle -to-night,” she explained glibly. “’Twas a monstrous insult to the Bard -of Scotland, and I told my father so, and that I would not countenance -it. Then I stole away, as I thought, unobserved, and came here to induce -Mr. Burns to return with me. Once inside the castle my father will be -forced to receive him graciously. Now, hurry, landlord, tell him to dress -and we’ll slip out quietly, and, with your connivance, elude my—father’s -vigilance.” She watched him narrowly to note the effect of her story. - -“My lady,” replied John proudly, “the lad goes to Athol Castle to-night, -so ye had better gang hame wi’ your father.” She gave a quick start -of delighted satisfaction. So he was going after all. If she had only -known that and felt sure of it, she might have spared herself this -nerve-racking experiment, she thought impatiently. - -The pounding had kept up incessantly, and now a stern, commanding voice -called out for the landlord. - -“He’s calling me,” said John nervously; “ye’d better go doon an’ explain -a’ to him,” he told her pleadingly. - -“Landlord, where the devil are you?” They could hear the heavy tread of -feet walking about the rooms below. - -“He’s inside the house,” whispered John, wringing his hands. - -“O Lud, he seems most angry, doesn’t he?” she said in a subdued voice. -She had suddenly grown tired of the deception, and was eager now to get -away. “I—I think perhaps ’twould be best if he—er—my father didn’t find -me here after all,” she admitted. “I—I really dare not face his anger.” -She jumped up quickly, all her bravado vanished. “Get me out of this -place, landlord, quick, quick!” she gasped, clinging to him. Oh, why had -she come? Sir William would make such a disagreeable scene if he found -her here. - -“Into that room wi’ ye!” cried John quickly, pointing to a small door -in the opposite side of the room; “an’ I’ll get your father out o’ the -house.” - -“Why couldn’t the old fossil have stayed at home?” she said to herself -angrily. “This promised to be such a romantic adventure, landlord,” she -said aloud, poutingly. “And now ’tis all spoiled. Plague take it. Hurry, -landlord, and get my—father away, for I must return to the ball before -my absence is noticed.” She went into the room, her heart filled with -apprehension, and closed the door, which John promptly locked. - -“Thank the Lord,” he muttered with a sigh of relief. “I breathe easier.” -Going to the door leading to the hall, he listened for a moment. From -below came the sound of clinking glasses. He closed the door quickly. The -coast was clear now. His guidwife was waiting on the customer. He hurried -across the room and was about to release his prisoner, when he heard the -door of Robert’s chamber open. He turned quickly and found his lodger -yawning in the doorway. - -“Well, John Anderson, my Jo John,” said he lazily, “what’s all the row -here, eh?” - -John looked up guiltily. “Are ye up, laddie?” he stammered. - -“Nay, John, I’m walkin’ round in my bed,” retorted Robert dryly. “Dinna -ye think it’s time for me to be up?” he asked. “What’s the matter, mon? -stand still, ye make me dizzy.” - -John was uneasily walking up and down, casting surreptitious glances at -the door of the room which held the fair captive. “Oh, Johnny, my Jo -John,” laughed Robert as he caught sight of the old man’s lugubrious -countenance, “ye’ve been drinkin’ too much Usqubaugh.” - -“Too much what, Robbie?” he asked nervously. - -“Usqubaugh. Dinna ken what that is? It’s whisky, whisky, whisky.” - -“Oh, I ken, laddie,” replied John, smiling grimly. “Ye needna’ repeat it; -one whisky is enough.” - -“Not for me,” laughed Robert, slapping him on the shoulder. “Ye dinna ken -my capacity.” The noise of a chair overturning in the next room arrested -his attention. - -“What’s that?” he asked quickly. - -“It’s n—nothing,” stammered John. - -“There’s somebody in that room,” exclaimed Rob, putting his ear to the -crack in the door. “I hear her walking around.” - -“Nay, nay, Rob, it’s nobody,” protested John, pushing him away. - -“Oh, oh, John Anderson, my Jo John!” cried Rob, pointing an accusing -finger at the flushed, embarrassed face of the old man, “I’m on to ye.” - -“For shame, Robbie, an’ me wi’ an old wife below stairs,” he answered -indignantly. - -“Faith, I’ll just find out who it is,” chuckled Rob, going toward the -door. - -“Nay, nay, lad!” remonstrated John, holding him back. “Wait, I’ll tell ye -who it is.” - -“Ah, I knew it,” ejaculated Rob triumphantly. “Who is it?” - -“It’s—it’s the Bailie,” faltered John. - -“The Bailie? what’s he doing in there?” - -“Weel, he—he came to arrest ye for debt,” glibly lied the old man. “So I -told him to wait in there till ye came hame, an’ noo he’s my prisoner; -that’s a’, Robbie.” - -Rob grasped his hand gratefully. “Ye’re a true friend, John Anderson. Let -me see, how much do I owe him?” - -John backed quickly away from him. “Nay, nay, laddie!” he said decidedly. -“I havena anither penny.” - -“Neither have I,” laughed Rob ruefully. “So I’ll leave ye to get him out -the best way ye can; he’s your prisoner, not mine. I’d like to pitch -him down stairs. Come on, John, between us we ought to manage the old -Shylock.” - -“Nay, nay, Robbie,” he retorted dryly. “Take my word for it, we’d hae our -hands full.” - -“Weel, I’ll get into the rest of my clothes, for I’m due in society,” -yawned Rob, going to his room. “Get rid of him, John; do what ye like -with him; he’s no friend of mine,” and he went in and closed the door -behind him. - -John softly followed him to the door and turned the key in the lock. -“I’ll take nae chances,” he said grimly. - -“Good-evening,” said a sweet voice timidly. He turned around and with -a gasp of astonishment beheld a young girl standing in the doorway. -Suddenly he gave a great start. Could his eyes deceive him? Was that -beautiful creature in the long white opera cloak, her golden locks piled -in a gorgeous mass high upon her little head, really the barefooted lass -he had seen only a few days ago, in her short skirt of plaid? - -“Mary Campbell, is it yoursel’, lass?” he finally gasped. - -“Aye, ’tis really me,” laughed Mary happily. “I’m goin’ to the ball at -Athol Castle with Mrs. Dunlop. I wanted Robbie to see me in my gown -before I went, so Mrs. Dunlop left me here, while she drove over to pick -up Mrs. McLehose; then she’ll return for me. Where is Robbie, John?” - -“He’s in there dressing, Mary, but whist, I’ve something to tell ye -first.” - -“About Robbie?” she asked anxiously. - -“Aye, there’s the devil to pay here, Mary.” The old man’s face looked -gloomy and perturbed. “There’s a—a lady in that room.” - -“A—a lady!” gasped Mary in amazement, looking at the door of Robbie’s -chamber. - -“Aye, Lady Nancy Gordon hersel’.” - -“Then it’s true,” cried Mary, sinking into a chair, a great fear tugging -at her heart. “It’s true, then, all the stories I hear, that Robert is -be—bewitched wi’ her. I wouldna’ believe it before. Mrs. Dunlop says it -isna’ true, that Robbie hasna’ changed, but noo what can I think? Oh, -laddie, oh, laddie!” and she sank back pale and trembling. - -“There, lassie, Robert doesna’ care a penny for that lass,” he said -tenderly. “She is only a heartless coquette, o’er fond of adventure,” -and he laid his wrinkled hand caressingly on the golden head. “Noo look -here, Mary, ye mustna’ expect Robert to be an angel all the time. He -thinks only of ye, and he loves ye just as fondly, e’en if he does smile -and make love to the ladies who throw themsel’s at his feet. He would -lose his popularity, ye ken. ’Tis only an amusin’ pastime, lassie, an’ -but gives him inspiration for his poetry, so dinna’ take it to heart. -Ye ken Rob is highly sensitive, a most temperamental lad, who is very -susceptible to the charms of the fair sex, but whist, Mary, he isn’t -marrying any of them. There is only one lassie who will be his wife noo, -and she’s nae far away from me this moment.” And he nodded his head -sagely. - -“Why dinna’ they leave him alone?” sighed Mary disconsolately. “’Tis very -unmaidenly in them to seek for his favor so openly.” - -“Noo, lassie,” said John seriously, “we maun get Lady Nancy out o’ this -scrape, for the house is watched noo by her father, who suspects her -presence here.” - -He walked up and down the room for a few moments plunged in deep thought. -All at once his face brightened. - -“I have thought o’ a scheme, lassie,” he said suddenly. “Let Lady Nancy -take this long cloak of yours; ’twill cover her o’er entirely; then she -can walk boldly out past her father; he will think ’tis ye, Mary, and -will na’ stop her. Ye’re both of a height,” and he regarded her with -anxious eyes. - -“Why should I help her?” said Mary, her heart still heavy and sore. - -“For Robbie’s sake,” pleaded John. “Her father will blame the lad for it -all; perhaps he will shoot him, and he an innocent man. Why, lassie, he -doesna’ even ken the lass is in the house.” - -“Doesna’ ken it?” repeated Mary, smiling incredulously. “Why, John, -Robert isna’ blind. If she is in his room——” - -“But she isna’ in his room, Mary,” interrupted John. “She’s in there, -scared to death,” and he pointed to the door opposite. - -“Oh!” comprehended Mary with a sigh of relief. “That’s different. I’ll -help her noo, John,” and she jumped eagerly to her feet, her face flushed -and earnest. - -“That’s the girlie,” replied John heartily. Going to the door, he opened -it and whispered to Lady Nancy to come out. - -“Lud, I thought you were never coming,” she flashed as she hastily -entered the room. She stopped short upon seeing Mary. - -“This lady will help ye get away,” said John, looking angrily at the -bogus Lady Nancy. - -[Illustration: “Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it -about the bare shoulders of the disdainful lady.”] - -“Where have I seen that face before?” Lady Glencairn asked herself -nervously, looking closely into Mary’s flushed, innocent face, that -reminded her so guiltily of Lady Nancy Gordon herself. - -Mary quickly divested herself of her mantle and threw it about the bare -shoulders of the disdainful lady, who hastily drew the large hood over -her elaborate court wig, entirely concealing it within its voluminous -folds. - -With a quick careless word of thanks to Mary, she walked to the door, and -calling to John, who was quietly turning the key in Robert’s door, to -show her the way out, she swiftly left the room, and with wildly beating -heart, passed her uncle at the outer door, and mingled her presence with -the stream of gallant courtiers and laughing, gayly-dressed ladies that -wended its boisterous way along the crowded thoroughfare. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -When Mary found herself alone she sat down pensively in the big leather -chair, feeling very sad and thoughtful. Of course she trusted Robert -absolutely, but how could he really love such an ignorant little country -girl like herself, when there were so many grand, rich, beautiful ladies -surrounding him all the time and suing for his favors, even seeking him -out in his own rooms? But her face brightened as she thought of what -John had told her. “It isna’ his fault if the women lose their hearts -over him,” he had said, and in her heart she felt she could not blame -anyone for loving Robbie. She rose and softly approached his door. Then -she paused. No, she would wait till he came and found her himself. But -she did wish he would hurry and finish dressing before Mrs. Dunlop came -back. She strolled aimlessly about the room looking with listless eyes -at the collections of souvenirs and bric-a-brac which filled the mantels -and covered the tables. She noted with wonder the profusion of ladies’ -gloves, ’kerchief, scarfs, a slipper or two and a motley collection of -other articles littering the table. She picked up a beautiful pink mask -and idly turned it over; on the back she read, “Dropped by Lady Nancy at -the Charity Ball given in honor of the Prince of Wales.” She put it down, -her lips trembling. He must prize it very highly, she thought with a -pang of jealousy; but as she read the various inscriptions on the back -of a number of the others, she smiled and told herself what a silly she -was. Of course he couldn’t be in love with all the owners of those many -favors. She picked up the mask again and held it before her eyes. How -funny to cover one’s face in such a manner, she thought. She fastened the -elastic behind her ear, and with a woman’s curiosity wondered how she -looked in it. She quickly spied the large cheval mirror in the cabinet. -“How funny I do look,” she said to herself with a little amused laugh, -as she caught sight of her reflection. “Nobody would ever know me.” As -she drew closer to the mirror in pleased wonder her dancing eyes slowly -wandered from the top of the glittering coil of her golden hair, dwelt -for an instant in blushing modesty on the gleaming, bare shoulders, -and rested in loving, blissful content on her simple trailing robe of -ivory-tinted embroidered silk. She looked angelically lovely as she stood -there innocently admiring her winsome reflection. - -“Is that really the Highland Mary who used to wander barefooted through -the glens and vales, the simple dairymaid who made butter for Colonel -Montgomery?” she asked herself dreamily. “Am I awake, I wonder? How -Souter Johnny would open his eyes if he could only see me noo in this -beautiful gown, carrying a fan an’ wi’ my hair done up high.” She laughed -gleefully but softly at the thought. “Wouldna’ they be proud to see me -such a grand lady.” She walked stiffly across the room with all the -dignity she could command, her chin held high and taking quick little -pleased glances over her shoulder at her reflection. It was Mary’s -first long gown, and it was not to be wondered at, when in turning -quickly around a chair she easily became entangled in her train, and -with a little frightened gasp she suddenly found herself on her knees -endeavoring to extricate her feet from the clinging mass of silk and -linen in which they were enmeshed. Finally she succeeded in regaining -her feet, but not until she had with extreme care seated herself did she -breathe a sigh of relief. She eyed her train ruefully. “If I should fall -doon before all the great people at the ball, I should be so ashamed,” -she said, sighing dismally. “They would all laugh at me. But Robert says -I am nicer than anyone in all the world.” She reveled in that thought an -instant, then her face lengthened. “But I ken there is a difference, a -great difference; I am only a simple country lass without any learnin’ -whatever, while Lady Nancy is——” she rose suddenly as a thought occurred -to her, her hands clasped tightly together. “Suppose he should grow -ashamed of his ignorant little country wife,” she whispered with -trembling lips; “it would break my heart in twain.” - -She held out her hands passionately toward her unseen lover. “Ye -willna’ ever regret makin’ me your wife, will ye dear?” she whispered -imploringly. “Ye willna’ be sorry in years to come.” Quickly her loving, -trustful faith reasserted itself. “Nay, nay, my heart tells me ye -willna’, so I’ll be foolish nae more. I’ll tell him what a silly lass -I’ve been an’ how he’ll laugh at my doubting fears.” She took a step -toward his door, when it opened and Robert came quickly into the room, -dressed for the ball, looking very handsome in his plain and unpretending -dress of blue homespun, for he still retained the same simplicity of -manner and appearance that he brought with him from the country. He -stopped in amazement as he came face to face with his unexpected visitor. - -Mary with a thrill of joy at the sight of her lover waited eagerly for -the words of praise which she knew her appearance would elicit, and for -which she hungered, but as he stood looking at her so calmly, so coldly, -her joy turned to wonder and fear. What was the matter? Didn’t she please -him? With a little gasp she put her hand nervously to her face. As it -came in contact with the mask, which she had forgotten to remove, her -heart gave a quick bound of relief. Of course! He didn’t know her. “He -doesna’ ken who I am at all,” she thought gleefully. - -As his eyes rested upon the pink mask, Robert gave a sudden start, then -glanced quickly at the table. No, it wasn’t there. So then this was Lady -Nancy herself. He recognized her hair, her figure, and above all the -mask. “So my haughty lady thinks it safer to play wi’ fire incognito, -eh?” he thought grimly. “Weel, I’ll teach ye a lesson, my fine lady; ye -need one badly.” Then aloud, “I’m indeed honored, madam, by your presence -here to-night,” he said, bowing low before her. - -Mary courtesied deeply. Oh, it was so exciting to be talking with her -Robbie, and how surprised he would be when she unmasked. - -“Haven’t ye a word to say to me, fair lady?” continued Robert softly, as -she stood silently before him. - -“He’ll sure ken my voice,” she thought in trepidation; “if I could only -talk like a lady.” She wondered if she could imitate the haughty tones of -Lady Nancy Gordon herself. She’d try. She seated herself languidly. “Then -you don’t recognize me?” she asked, disguising her lyric voice, as near -as possible, in the lazy drawl of Lady Glencairn’s voice. - -He started and looked at her intently. It didn’t sound like Lady Nancy at -all, but who else could she be? he thought blankly. “Your voice sounds -like—but nae, I maun be mistaken,” he said doubtfully. “Nay, madam, I do -not recognize you. Will you not remove——” - -“What, my face?” laughed Mary. She had marvelously lost all trace of her -country intonation. “Oh, nay, sir! I’m too much attached to it.” - -“Well ye might be, fair lady!” replied Robert, “but why do ye hide your -beauty so jealously?” He reached out his hand to lift the mask from her -face, but, with a rippling laugh, she eluded him, and from behind the -high-backed settle made reply. - -“Be not impatient, Mr. Burns,” she said saucily; “you shall see my face -in good time, I warrant ye!” It must be Lady Nancy after all, he told -himself. - -“’Tis a promise of paradise, madam!” he cried fervently, entering into -the spirit of adventure. - -Mary looked at him reproachfully. Did he think she was really Lady -Gordon? she wondered. The thought gave her pause. Well, she would find -out how much he really cared for her, how much truth there was in the -gossip she had heard. “Rumor sayeth, Mr. Burns, that ye are in love with -the beautiful Lady Nancy Gordon; is that so?” she asked, fanning herself -languorously. - -He smiled quizzically into her face. “Rumor hath many tongues, fair lady, -and most of them lying ones. The lady doesna’ suit my taste; even her -money couldna’ tempt me, an’ I need the money badly. That will take her -conceit down a peg I’ll warrant,” he thought grimly. - -“But she is very beautiful, I hear,” said Mary, filled with delight at -his answer. - -“That I grant ye. Mistress Nancy is most adept in the use of the -hare’s foot an’ of the paint box. I’ll wager she can teach even our -incomparable actress, Mrs. Siddons, a few tricks in the art of makeup. -Oh, but ye should see the lady in the early morning. ’Fore heaven, she -resembles damaged goods!” Now would come the explosion of wounded pride -and outraged dignity, he thought calmly, but his amazement was unbounded -when the seeming Lady Nancy jumped up and down, ecstatically clapping her -hands in a very undignified manner. “Ye seem o’er pleased at my remark,” -he exclaimed with a puzzled frown. - -“I am, I am pleased!” she cried joyfully. - -“What?” he stammered taken aback—“why, I—I thought ye were——” He stopped, -flushed and embarrassed. - -“Were Lady Nancy Gordon!” she finished. “O Lud, if I were, I wouldn’t -feel complimented at all the flattering things I’ve heard!” and she went -off in a peal of merry laughter. - -“Who are ye then, who comes to my chamber at night?” he asked curtly, -chagrined at his mistake. She shook her head and laughed softly. - -“Ye shall know in good time,” she replied coquettishly. “I—I must make -certain that ye dinna’ love—me.” She smiled, but her heart was beating -wildly. - -“I love only one maiden, an’ I make her my wife within a week,” he -answered with dignity. - -“An’ ye’ve no regrets for Lady Nancy, nor for Mrs. McLehose, nor—nor -any o’ the grand ladies ye’ll be givin’ up to marry the little country -maiden?” she asked softly, forgetting in her eagerness her lapse into her -natural speech. - -“None, my lady,” he replied firmly. “Noo, lets call a truce to this -masquerade! I am at a loss to understand your errand here to-night, -but do not press ye for an explanation, and as I am due at the Duke of -Athol’s, I must bid ye good-night.” He bowed coldly, and started to leave -her. - -But with a cry of joy, which thrilled him to the heart, she drew near to -him with outstretched arms. “Robbie, lad, canna’ ye guess who I am?” she -cried. “I’m nae a grand lady at all, I’m only your Highland Mary.” With a -quick movement, she tore off the mask from her flushed and radiant face -and threw it far from her. - -“Mary, is it ye?” he gasped, almost speechless with surprise. He could -scarcely believe his senses. This radiantly beautiful lady his Highland -Mary? was such a metamorphosis possible? - -She made him a little courtesy. “Aye, ’tis Mary!” she answered, her heart -beating fast with pleasure. Quickly she told him how she had come, why -she had come, and how long she had waited, just to hear his words of -approval. “Do I please ye, laddie?” she asked shyly. - -For a moment he could not speak. Her wonderful perfection of beauty -startled him. He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with almost -pathetic tenderness. “Mary, my love, my sweet lass!” and his voice -trembled. “Pleased! Good Heavens, what little words those are to express -my feelings. I can tell ye how you look, for nothing can ever make ye -vain! Ye’re the most beautiful lassie I’ve ever seen! Ah, but I’m proud -of ye this night. Ye’re fit to wear a coronet, Mary lass! I ken there -will not be a grand lady at the ball to-night who will look half sae -bonnie, nor hae such sweet, dainty manners, as my country sweetheart.” -He held her off at arm’s length and glanced with affectionate adoration, -from the fair, golden-crowned head down to the point of the small -pearl-embroidered slipper that peeped beneath the edge of the rich, -sheeny white robe. - -“It seems so strange to be here in Edinburgh, decked out in all this -finery,” she murmured dreamily, “and on my way to a real ball. Is it -really me?” - -“Aye, ’tis ye, Mary, I’ll swear to that!” he cried heartily, kissing -the sweet, ingenuous face raised to his so wistfully. She blushed with -pleasure, and bashfully turned her head away. “Ye dinna’ think I look -awkward, do ye laddie?” she inquired in a low, timid voice. - -“Nay, ye’re grace itself, sweetheart!” he replied reassuringly, raising -her chin till her drooping eyes met his. - -“An’ ye wouldna ken I was only a dairymaid if it werena for my speech, -would ye?” she interrogated, with pathetic hopefulness. Her concerned, -anxious little face and wistful manner touched him deeply. - -“I wouldna have ye changed for all the world, Mary!” he told her -tenderly, pressing his lips to the one little curl which hung unconfined -over her snowy shoulder. “Be your own pure, sweet self always, for ye’re -the fairest of all God’s creatures to me noo.” - -She gave a deep sigh of absolute content, and leaned against him silently -for a moment. Then she looked up at him brightly. “This fine dress makes -me quite a grand lady, doesna’ it?” she prattled innocently. - -“Aye! every inch a queen!” and he made her a deep bow. - -“But it isna mine, Robbie,” she whispered confidentially. “I borrowed it -for the night only, like Cinderella in the fairy book, to make my début -into fashionable society,” and she laughed gleefully, like a little child -telling a wonderful secret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop’s wedding gown, Robbie; -isna it just sweet?” She passed her hand gently over the folds of the -silk and there was awe and reverence in the touch. “Oh, how I love to -smooth it, ’tis so soft an’ rich an’ glossy; it isna’ wrong to love the -beautiful things, is it, laddie?” she asked earnestly. - -“Nay,” replied Robert, smiling tenderly at her naïveté. “Love the pretty -things all ye like, dearie, for hereafter ye shall have the finest gowns -in town. Ye shall select whatsoever your fancy pleases—dresses, bonnets, -mits, boots,” and he enumerated on his fingers all the articles he could -remember so dear to a woman’s heart. - -“Shall I really, really?” she gasped as he finished, looking at him with -wondering eyes. “I hae never bought a pretty thing in a’ my life, ye ken, -an’ oh, won’t it be just sweet? We’ll go to the shops to-morrow, an’ Mrs. -Dunlop will help me select my—my wedding gown.” She held her head away -bashfully, blushing pink before the sudden fire that gleamed in the dark -eyes bent on her so devotedly. - -“Your wedding gown?” he repeated, with dreamy softness. “Let it be silk, -Mary, white, soft and shimmering, to float around ye like a cloud of -sunshine. An’ ye must have a bridal veil too, lassie, one sae fine an’ -transparent that it will cover ye o’er like the morning mist.” - -“I would be afraid to buy so much,” she replied gravely. “’Twould be too -costly, an’ ye canna’ afford to waste sae much money to deck me out like -a lady,” and she shook her head in firm disapproval. - -He laughed heartily at her sober face and air of housewifely prudence. -“My dear,” he whimsically told her, “dinna’ ye mind the cost. A weddin’ -doesna’ often happen in one’s lifetime, sae we’ll make it a grand one -this time.” - -“Ye’ll spoil me, Robbie,” she answered, smiling happily. - -“Nay, ye’re too sweet and lovely to be spoiled.” - -“Well, ye ken,” she replied demurely, “sweet things spoil the quickest.” - -Before he could reply, the rattle of a carriage over the pavement sounded -loudly through the room. As it stopped at the door, Mary gave a little -sigh of regret. “It’s Mrs. Dunlop, returning for me at last,” she said. -She secretly hoped the sharp old eyes would not miss the cloak. - -“Aye, like the good fairy godmother,” smiled Robert, as he led her out of -the room and down the stairs. - -“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she murmured softly, picking up her -train, and lovingly holding it over her arm, as she walked daintily -across the sidewalk to the waiting carriage. “If I am, laddie,” she -continued earnestly, “I hope I may never awake from it; I want to dream -on forever.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -When Lady Glencairn, after her arrival at the Duke of Athol’s, found that -Robert had not come—indeed she and Lord Glencairn and Sir William Creech, -her uncle, had been the first to arrive—she decided recklessly to visit -him at his chambers, so she had easily stolen away unnoticed by all save -one, on her indiscreet journey. Sir William had seen her as she slipped -guiltily out through the conservatory window and had followed her with -growing suspicions to the door of Robert’s chamber, where he waited in -impotent wrath for her to reappear, after having questioned the guidwife -within the inn. And he was not deceived when she came out, wrapped in -the disguising cloak and mask. He followed her like a grim servitor till -she reached the castle, and as she was noiselessly reëntering by the -conservatory window, he called to her to wait. With a startled gasp she -turned, and as her eyes rested on her uncle’s accusing face, she gave a -little laugh, half scornful, half defiant, and leisurely throwing off her -cloak and mask, stood waiting for him to speak. - -“Ye foolish woman!” he told her angrily. “How could ye be so imprudent, -reckless mad, as to visit a man’s chamber at night?” - -“Don’t preach to me, uncle,” she answered sullenly. “No one knows of my -being there, not even Mr. Burns himself.” - -“But what were ye thinkin’ of to do such a reprehensible act?” he -demanded sternly. She turned on him suddenly. - -“Because I love him!” she exclaimed passionately, casting prudence to the -winds. “I went there to tell him of my love, to give myself to him, to -beg him to take me away from here, to take me anywhere, only to let me be -near him, to stay with him. But I was forced to come away without seeing -him, thanks to you.” - -For a moment he regarded the reckless woman in silence, amazement, shame, -and anger struggling for the mastery. - -“Alice, of what are you thinking?” he ejaculated finally, catching -her roughly by the arm. “You must control yourself. I speak for your -own good. Think no more of this idle poet, for only shame, ruin and -unhappiness can come to ye and your husband, unless ye give up this -unholy passion.” - -She laughed scornfully. “My husband!” she cried bitterly. “Don’t remind -me of that fossil! You, and the rest of my family, are to blame for my -being fettered, tied to a man I do not love. If it were not for that, I -could find the happiness I crave.” - -“Sh! be calm!” he continued, looking anxiously around. “You may be -overheard. Foolish woman! do you forget that Robert Burns, as well as -yourself, is married.” - -“He is not!” she flashed impetuously. “That was no legal tie. Some -foolish chit of a country lass flung herself at him, with the usual -result. Any man would have done as he did, but unlike most men, he, -out of pity and from a high sense of honor, married her; but it was an -irregular marriage, which was speedily annulled by the girl’s father. He -is free now, free as ever he was. The girl has given him up, poor fool. I -only am the shackled one, a prisoner for life, unless——” An eager light -flashed in her deepened eyes. - -“Unless Robert Burns elopes with ye!” he finished sarcastically. “I -warn ye, Alice, not to play with edged tools;’tis o’er dangerous. Be -more careful or others will suspect what I already know.” She smiled -disdainfully and shrugged her shapely shoulders. - -“Do not force me to open your husband’s eyes!” he retorted, angered by -her irritating indifference. She looked at him, her heart filled with -sudden fury. How she would like to hit him in the face with her fan, how -she hated him and his interference, his unwelcome advice. “Already,” he -continued irritably, “you have given that scandalmonger, Eppy McKay, -cause to suspect your too warm and ardent affection for Mr. Burns, by -openly showing jealousy of Lady Nancy Gordon.” - -“I jealous of Nancy Gordon?” she repeated, with airy scorn, walking -toward the door of the conservatory. “Huh, not I, uncle; I am not so -unconscious of my own charms,” and she drew her magnificent figure -up to its full height, then smiled insolently into his perturbed and -nervous face. “I thank you for all your advice,” she murmured sweetly as -they traversed the long hall, “but remember, hereafter, that I mean to -steer my own canoe, whether it leads me into safe waters or through the -rapids.” And with a radiant smile upon her sensuous lips she entered the -drawing-room, leaning affectionately upon the arm of her outraged but -speechless relative. Quietly she took her place by her waiting husband’s -side, her dark eyes full of a bewitching and dangerous softness, for her -thoughts were on the one guest whose very name had the power to move her -so completely. - -Never had she appeared so dazzlingly beautiful, as she stood there -meeting her friends and acquaintances with a deep ceremonious courtesy -for the distinguished ones, a smile and a nod for her intimates, and an -air of high-bred insolence and extreme self-satisfaction pervading her -whole appearance. - -No one was ever bored at the Duchess of Athol’s brilliant “at homes.” -One always felt sure of meeting at least three or four justly celebrated -personages under her hospitable roof. And to-night society was a-gog, -for it was to welcome the farmer-poet, Robert Burns, who had returned -from his triumphant tour through the Highlands. Soon the capacious -drawing-rooms were crowded. There was the rustle of silk and satin, rare -and delicate perfumes shaken out of lace kerchiefs, while the heavy scent -of the many bouquets oppressed the warm air to the point of suffocation. -There was an interminably monotonous murmur of voices, only broken at -rare intervals by a ripple of mild laughter. Over by the large windows -that overlooked the terrace stood a group of people gazing earnestly out -beyond the gardens at some object, which had arrested their attention, -with various degrees of interest. - -“Whatever is happening below on Princes Street?” suddenly inquired one -of the ladies, nervously clutching the arm of the man nearest her. Eppy -McKay was an eccentric maiden lady of questionable age and taste. Of more -than ordinary height naturally, she looked a giantess in her powdered -wig, which towered fully a foot in the air, and which was decorated -profusely with waving plumes, rosettes and jewels. Her lowcut gown of -crimson satin, over a petticoat of quilted green silk, was cut extremely -low, revealing a vision of skin and bones, powdered to a ghastly -whiteness. Her affectations, her simperings, and her poses accorded -society much amusement, of which fact she was blissfully unconscious. - -“There is a crowd gathered around a carriage, but farther than that I -cannot make out,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, the famous author and publisher. - -A prolonged shout from below increased the restlessness of the timid -Eppy. “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “If it should be an uprising of the -Jacobites,” and she looked fearfully into the amused faces of her -companions. - -With a disgusted grunt, Sir William Creech shook his arm free from her -clawlike clutch. “Nonsense, woman, ye’re daft!” he answered impatiently. - -“Well, upon my word!” she murmured in injured surprise. - -“The mob is increasing—’tis coming nearer!” exclaimed Mr. Mackenzie, -stepping out upon the wide balcony. - -“So it is,” affirmed Eppy, retreating behind the heavy curtains. “Lady -Glencairn!” she called as her ladyship approached the window. “Listen to -those murmurs! Oh, dear! it makes me so nervous.” - -Lady Glencairn stepped out upon the balcony, followed by the timid Eppy, -and stood contemplating the scene in the brightly lighted street below -them. - -“It sounds not ominous,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Lud, what -a throng! They have unhitched the horses from a carriage, and are -themselves drawing it hither.” - -“Who is in the carriage, can you see?” eagerly asked Eppy, straining her -eyes. - -“A gentleman, who is evidently addressing the people,” answered Lady -Glencairn slowly. She gazed intently at the figure silhouetted against -the light of the street lamps. Surely she knew that form. At that moment -he turned, and with a flush of surprise, a thrill of joy, she suddenly -recognized him. - -“Upon my life,’tis Robert, Robert Burns!” she cried excitedly. - -“Aye, I recognize him now,” said Mr. Mackenzie. - -“And you say they are drawing him hither?” inquired Sir William -incredulously, turning to his niece. - -“Aye, and why not?” she replied brightly, turning to the others. “They -should carry him on their shoulders, for he deserves all homage.” - -“And ’tis said the Scots are not demonstrative,” ejaculated Mr. -Mackenzie, as another burst of applause and cheers, followed by laughter, -reached their ears. - -“You hear how demonstrative they can be when occasion demands -enthusiasm,” replied Lady Glencairn stanchly, “when genius knocks at the -door of their hearts. See how Edinburgh has utterly lost control of its -conservative old self, and all over the poetic genius of Robert Burns.” - -“True, he has indeed stirred the hardest-hearted Scot by his fascinating -poetry,” mused Mr. Mackenzie admiringly. - -“How I shall love him,” sighed Eppy dreamily. “In sooth I do now,” and -she simpered and dropped her eyes like a love-sick school girl. - -“And she has never met the man yet!” cried Sir William in amazement. “The -woman’s daft,” he muttered, turning away. - -“I do wish he would come,” sighed Eppy. “I want to tell him how much I -admire him and his poetry. Oh, I have the dearest little speech, that -Sibella, my sister, composed, all prepared to say when I am presented to -him.” She rolled her eyes up ecstatically. - -“I shall also recite one of his odes to him,” she continued, in the tone -of one who is about to confer a great favor. “I know ’twill please him -greatly,” and she fanned herself languidly. - -“What have you selected?” inquired Lady Glencairn, laughing openly. The -woman’s vanity amused her. - -“Such a sweet conceit,” simpered Eppy. - -“Is it ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Tale’?” inquired Mr. Mackenzie, interestedly. - -“No, oh, no!” she replied, shaking her head. “’Tis monstrous long to -recite.” - -“An ode to a calf,” said Sir William grimly, “would be more appropriate.” - -“Perhaps ’tis the tale of ‘The Twa Dogs,’” hazarded Lady Glencairn. Eppy -laughed gleefully and shook her head. - -“Tell us the name, madam; we’re no children!” roared Sir William, glaring -at her like an angry bull. - -“You’re so gruff,” pouted Eppy reproachfully. “Do you all give it up?” -They nodded. “Well, then, don’t be shocked,” and she shook her finger -at them coquettishly; then leaning forward she whispered loudly, “’Tis -entitled ‘To a Louse.’” - -“Heaven, preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, laughing heartily. - -“She’s touched here!” cried Sir William commiseratingly, putting his -finger to his head. - -“Why did you choose that?” gasped Lady Glencairn, in amazement. - -“Because ’tis a beautiful conceit,” answered Eppy soulfully. “I protest, -I mean to recite it.” - -“I vow ’tis a most singular selection.” - -“I don’t see why,” snapped Eppy spitefully. “’Twas written round a fact.” - -“Really, I hadn’t heard of that,” answered her ladyship, coolly turning -away. - -“I wonder at that,” cooed Eppy innocently, although a little malicious -twinkle appeared in her eyes. “You of all people should know everything -pertaining to Mr. Burns and his verses.” Lady Glencairn stiffened -suddenly, and cast a quick look at the stern face of her uncle. - -“What do you mean by that?” inquired Sir William aggressively, turning to -Eppy. - -“Oh, nothing, nothing!” she hastily replied, frightened by what she had -said. - -“Everything concerning Mr. Burns, my husband’s protégé, and my friend, -my dear friend, I may call him, does interest me mightily, Miss McKay. -Pray tell me the story connected with the poem, if you care to!” and Lady -Glencairn turned her glittering eyes, which were narrowed dangerously, -upon the face of the crestfallen Eppy. - -Sir William gave a snort of anger. “Ye couldn’t stop her; she is dying to -tell all she knows!” he said crustily. - -Eppy cleared her throat vigorously. “Well, it was this way,” she began -confidentially. “Mr. Burns was sitting behind a lady in Kirk, one -Sabbath, who had on a new bonnet, of which she seemed most proud. As he -was admiring its beauty, his keen eyes detected this horrid little animal -crawling over the gauze and lace.” - -“How fascinating,” murmured Mr. Mackenzie in mocking rapture. - -“And it immediately inspired his pen to write the verses which have -made such a sensation in town,” concluded Eppy, looking eagerly at her -listeners for some look or word of approval. - -“What a—a creepy story,” said Lady Glencairn, with a little shiver of -repulsion. - -She turned to her quickly. “’Tis said, my dear, and I ask you not to -repeat it, for I promised not to tell, that the lady in question was -Agnes McLehose, the beautiful grass widow, who is such an ardent admirer -of Mr. Burns, you know.” - -“Really!” murmured Lady Glencairn coldly. - -“And the airs she put on!” cried Eppy, with lofty indignation. “Why, do -you know——” - -But Lady Glencairn interrupted her sharply. “I do not care to speak of -Agnes McLehose,” she retorted frigidly, “and I never indulge in scandal, -especially before my friends, so let us not disgust them with any woman’s -gossip.” - -“You are quite right,” affirmed Eppy affably. “I do not believe in it -myself; it always comes back to one.” - -“Who can understand a woman?” grunted Sir William aloud. - -“Well, it’s most easy to understand men,” retorted Eppy quickly. - -With a sigh of impatience, Lady Glencairn took Mr. Mackenzie’s arm and -silently they reëntered the drawing-room. They wended their way through -the groups of people standing about, for the largest and most brilliant -portion of the assemblage were standing, the sofas, ottomans, and chairs -being occupied by the puffy old dowagers, who were entertaining each -other with choice bits of scandal; and, finally, came to a standstill -beside the grand piano. For a moment they remained quiet, listening to -the glorious voice of Madame Urbani, who from the great drawing-room -above was trilling forth an aria from grand opera. From her position -Lady Glencairn commanded a good view of the large arch through which the -guests entered the drawing-rooms. Anxiously she watched for the handsome -face and curly black hair of the poet above the crowd that surrounded -her. “Why does he not come? what can be detaining him?” she asked herself -for the hundredth time. Perhaps he was with Lady Nancy Gordon, she -thought jealously, looking about the vast room. She was sure she had -not yet been announced. It looked very suspicious that neither she, nor -Robert, had arrived. And her heart was consumed with bitter jealousy, -although her smiling face bore no traces of the raging fire within. How -she hated that doll-faced beauty for being single and free! How she would -delight in trampling her in the dust, she thought cruelly. Nearly a month -had elapsed since Robert left Edinburgh, since she had seen him. A month -filled with vain longing and unrest. And since his return, she could -scarcely restrain her intense longing to see him. Day after day she would -drive slowly past his lodgings, hoping to catch a glimpse of his glowing, -dark face, which had such power to thrill her to the very depths of her -intense and passionate nature. That longing had taken possession of her -to-night, when she had slipped out and stolen away to his rooms, and she -would have willingly given her body and soul to him, for the asking; but -her good angel had protected her from her own indiscretion, and saved -her unsuspecting victim from a great remorse. The gurgling voice of Eppy -McKay broke in abruptly on her disturbing revery. - -“Oh, dear, I wish Mr. Burns would come,” she said plaintively. - -“He is usually very punctual,” answered Lady Glencairn, opening her large -fan of ostrich plumes and fanning herself indolently. - -“Genius is never governed by any rules of punctuality or propriety,” -observed Mr. Mackenzie. - -“Then he is exempt,” replied her ladyship, smiling brightly. “Ah! you -truant. Where have you been?” she demanded of her husband, who joined -them at that moment. - -“Incidentally getting a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Lord -Glencairn, smiling lovingly into his wife’s face. “But in reality, I was -listening to the ovation which Robert was receiving as he drove through -Princes Street.” Her eyes suddenly brightened. - -“How I wish I could have heard his speech to the masses,” she cried -enthusiastically. “For I must confess, James, that no man’s conversation -ever carried me off my feet so completely as that of Robert Burns.” - -“Indeed, my lady!” he retorted in mock alarm. “Then it behooves me to -keep my eye on you hereafter.” - -She joined in the laugh that followed, then remarked audaciously, “But, I -vow, a little flirtation is really most exhilarating now and then.” She -flashed her brilliant eyes mockingly upon the horror-struck countenance -of Eppy McKay. - -“How indiscreet!” exclaimed Eppy in amazement, “and you are a married -woman, too.” - -“’Tis perfectly shocking, isn’t it?” mimicked her ladyship insolently. - -Eppy pursed her thin lips, while a little spot of color dyed her -parchment-like cheeks. “Well, I do not approve of married women -flirting,” she replied primly, and as she caught the look of amusement -which passed between her ladyship and Mr. Mackenzie, she added sourly, -“Especially in public.” - -“Oh! Then you do approve of it in private,” replied her ladyship sweetly, -innocently opening her eyes to their widest. - -Eppy gave a gasp of horror. “Mercy, no!” she cried indignantly, “I should -say not.” And she tossed her head in virtuous anger. - -“Robert Burns!” announced the footman at this juncture. - -There was a sudden hush, a movement of excitement, and the group around -the door fell back, and everybody made way for the most important guest -of the evening, who for the last hour had been the all-absorbing topic -of conversation. Lady Glencairn started violently, as she heard the name -announced. For a brief instant she closed her eyes, feeling faint, and -trembling in an ecstasy of joy. He was here at last! Her heart throbbed -so violently it stifled her. - -“How noble he looks!” exclaimed Eppy in an awestruck tone, as she watched -the tall figure in a polite but determined manner coolly elbowing a -passage among the heaving bare shoulders, fat arms, the long trains, and -bulging bustles and paniers that seriously obstructed his way. “And to -think that man is but a lowly-bred peasant,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, as -he watched him bending low over the hand of their hostess. - -“A man’s a man, for all that!” murmured her ladyship, worshipful pride -in her voice and in her dazzling eyes, as she watched him approach, -bowing right and left. She drew herself up with the conscious air of a -beauty who knows she is nearly perfect, and with a smile she extended her -jeweled hand. “I’m so glad to see you here to-night,” she says sweetly, -although a glance like fire seen through smoke leaps from beneath her -silky eyelashes, but Robert saw it not; he was bending low over her fair -hand. “Welcome back to Edinburgh!” she continued, pressing his hand -warmly. - -A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned -simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My -lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted, I am to again press the -hand of my patron, my friend.” - -“The pleasure is mutual, my lad!” he replied. A kindly smile lighted up -his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full -cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us -looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through -the north with its Highland chieftains and lords at your feet, has not -turned your head after all.” - -Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Not a bit of it,” he replied frankly. - -“Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this -juncture. - -Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing -with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved -and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an -unexpected pleasure, sir.” - -“The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the -compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and -were delighted at the ovation you received.” - -Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his -sonorous voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could -scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble Robbie Burns they were -cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane yet.” He -regarded the great publisher with kindling eyes. “That I am so favorably -known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, _The -Lounger_, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me -before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous -criticism which was so judicious withal.” A little murmur of approval -from his listeners greeted his last words. - -“’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend -a helping hand to assist a struggling genius.” - -“Thank ye,” said Robert, simply. - -“I believe you have never met our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Sterne, -author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made -the introduction. - -Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified scholar. “Little did I -ever dream,” he said fervently, “that I would one day meet and converse -with my two favorite authors.” - -A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged features of the -scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously, “if my book has -found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged -in an animated conversation, much to the chagrin of one of his admirers, -who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally -rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the -opportunity to deliver it. - -“No one would ever take him for a farmer,” she thought in open-mouthed, -worshipful adoration. - -“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said a haughty voice near her, in a -tone of great surprise. - -“Huh! he makes love to every woman he meets!” replied Sir William -spitefully. - -With a thrill of rapture at the thought, Eppy attracted the attention of -Lady Glencairn, and whispered in that lady’s impatient ear, “Introduce -me, please; I see Mr. Burns is regarding me very closely.” - -Presently a lull occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly -introduced the garrulous old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his -poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in -both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp -the hand of Scotia’s Bard, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off -with a smothered giggle. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly -for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites -showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and -I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled on hardly pausing -for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her, -won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your -art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet, -belonged to our clan. We take after him.” She smiled affectedly and -batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner. - -Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the -silly prattle, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth. - -“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his -hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again. - -“Here I am rattling off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy -your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I -shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped, -out of breath, panting but happy. - -Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was -heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he -drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing with you. -Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent and did myself full justice,” and he -bowed gravely. - -“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with -her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir -William. - -“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite -poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward. - -At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr. -Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc. - -Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a -feeling of resentment filled his heart. Must he parade himself before -these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity, -a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr. -Mackenzie or Mr. Sterne or Dr. Blacklock, Mr. Ramsay, or any one of the -others to read from their books? - -“I must ask ye to excuse me to-night,” he replied coldly. “I have been -speaking in the open air and my voice is tired.” - -“Then I will recite in your stead,” cried Eppy, determined to make an -impression on the romantic young farmer. - -They crowded around her, laughing and joking, for poor Eppy was the -innocent, unsuspecting butt of society. - -“What is your selection?” someone asked seriously. - -“’Tis about the cunning little animal Mr. Burns saw on the lady’s -bonnet,” replied Eppy. “The lady’s name was—er——” She paused and looked -inquiringly into Robert’s grimly amused face. - -“Ye would be very much surprised, perhaps shocked and grieved, Miss -McKay,” he answered, “were I to mention the lady’s name here, so I’ll -spare your feelings. Please recite the poem.” Eppy made a deep courtesy, -blissfully unconscious that the lady in question was none else than -herself. And after arranging her dress to her satisfaction, cleared her -throat affectedly and made several ineffectual attempts to begin the -recitation. Gradually a look of comical despair puckered up her face, and -turning to Robert with an embarrassed giggle, she exclaimed poutingly, “I -cannot recall a single line. How provoking, and I protest. I knew every -line by rote this morning. Please start me on the first verse, Mr. Burns.” - -The spectacle of this silly old woman making a fool of herself before -that heartless crowd both annoyed and embarrassed Robert. “The last verse -is my favorite,” he replied, frowning angrily at the amused titters which -reached his ears from all sides, and quickly he read the verse through: - - “Oh wad some power the giftie gie us - To see ourselves as others see us. - It wad fra many a blunder free us, and foolish notion - What airs in dress and gait wad leave us, and e’en devotion.” - -And none knew whether the shaft was pointed at them or at the object of -their mirth, who stood before him with clasped hands and a smile meant to -be winning on her weak face, listening with all her senses. - -“How true that is,” murmured Lady Glencairn. - -“Yes, indeed,” sighed Eppy soulfully. “What fools some people make of -themselves, and they never know it, which is the funny part of it.” She -darted a quick glance at Lady Glencairn, who returned the look calmly and -evenly, although she was saying to herself, “Is she the fool she appears, -or is she giving me a dig, I wonder?” - -She turned to Robert. “Mr. Burns, will you find me a chair, please; I am -rather fatigued, standing so long.” - -He offered her his arm. “It will be rather a difficult matter,” he -observed, looking about him vainly. “Still, I can try.” And he moved -through the swaying crowd and out upon the balcony, with her little -gloved hand resting lightly on his coat sleeve. - -“I saw you this morning, Mr. Burns, on Calton Hill,” she observed -lightly, “but at a distance. Upon driving nearer I lost sight of you; you -must have vanished into the air.” - -“Not at all,” replied Robert, sitting beside her on the low balustrade. -“I found a beautiful solitude amongst a luxuriant growth of willows, -which no doubt you overlooked.” - -“To be sure,” she returned. “Now I remember. A sad scene occurred there a -few years ago; a lady from Loch Carron drowned herself in the little pond -they hang over, because the man she loved despised her.” Her voice was -soft and low. She drooped her eyes and sighed. - -“Poor unhappy woman,” sighed Robert sympathetically. - -She looked at him quickly, her face flushing, her eyes earnestly -searching his face. “Then you would have pitied her?” she asked almost -breathlessly. - -“He cannot be a man who would not pity a woman under such circumstances,” -he replied simply and thoughtfully. - -“She loved him devotedly, recklessly,” she continued, her voice trembling -with suppressed emotion; “but she had no moral right to do so,” she -continued. “She was a wife, a miserable, unhappy wife; she deserved much -pity, but he was pitiless and uncharitable. He despised her weakness, -and so—she drowned herself.” Her voice sank into a strained, unnatural -whisper. - -“Poor unhappy woman!” he repeated compassionately. “She was over-hasty, I -fear.” - -“You would not have consigned her to such a fate, would you?” she -faltered, laying her soft feverish hand on his. - -He started violently and was silent for a time. Then, slowly, sorrowfully -he turned and looked into her tell-tale face; for a moment she gazed -at him, her eyes glittering with an unholy light, her bosom heaving -tumultuously. Then she slowly drooped her head. - -“’Twould be a heavy load to have on one’s conscience,” he replied -constrainedly. - -He rose from his seat and stood looking thoughtfully across to where -Edinburgh castle loomed up on the hill, so cold and gloomy, outlined -against the blue sky. - -She glided swiftly to his side. “Robert, let me——” she began -passionately, when the cold voice of Sir William Creech rooted her to -the spot in terror. Out of the shadow walked her uncle, and ignoring her -presence he addressed himself to Robert. - -“Well, Mr. Burns!” he said angrily, “perhaps ye’ll condescend to notice -me now, your publisher, Sir William Creech.” - -“I hope ye’re well,” returned Robert indifferently. - -Sir William quivered with rage. “Ye’ve been in town a week, and yet ye -have not called to notify me of your arrival,” he sputtered. - -“I quite forgot, Sir William,” answered Rob repentently; “you see I’m not -a good business man. However, to-morrow I will call and we will arrange -our much neglected business matters.” - -“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly? -I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled. - -“Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my -brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper? -I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark on any -undertaking it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or -fee would be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed -dangerously. - -“You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William -sarcastically. - -“Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary -commodity, but extremely elusive, and to show you that money has no -terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some £300 -are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned -Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong -determination. - -“Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently, but Robert -raised his hand with a stately gesture. - -“I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a -steely glitter in his eye. - -“Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly. “Ye -are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of -that agreement, ye are scattering broadcast to every person that pleases -your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and -consequent sale of your collection.” - -“Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes -not the slightest difference.” - -“’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns, -ye must not do it again. I strictly forbid it.” - -“Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement. - -“Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man -living can dictate to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I -please. I will not barter an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise. -You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the -transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am -done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his -hand in angry dismissal. - -“But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback. - -“’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to -collect my just dues.” - -“Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly. - -“I told ye to call to-morrow,” snarled Sir William, “and I’ll pay ye, -then ye can gang your own gait. I have sought to give you advice, but ye -were too haughty and independent, and ye wouldn’t listen, but ye will yet -see and realize the bitter truth of my words, so go on in your career -of folly and its inevitable ruin, for ye’ll soon be at the end of your -tether, and may the devil claim ye for his own.” He stalked angrily away, -muttering to himself, “Ye upstart, ye low-born peasant, I’ll humble ye -yet!” - -Robert turned to Lady Glencairn with a smile of apology on his lips. “I -ask your pardon, Lady Glencairn,” he said humbly, “for being the cause -of this unseemly scene in your presence, but my anger was aroused, an’ -I simply couldna’ help speaking my thoughts—I am always doing the wrong -thing.” - -“Oh, nonsense!” she responded laughingly. “Let us forget it and join the -others.” She took his arm and they slowly entered the ballroom, where -they were speedily joined by Lord Glencairn and a party of friends, who -immediately surrounded them. - -“My dear,” said Lord Glencairn, “do you know that you have left us an -unconscionable time? Is there some witchery about yon balcony that I know -not of?” and he smiled affectionately upon his wife, whose eyes were -shining with happiness. - -“Your pardon, James, but I’m sure our absence was not noted in such a -distinguished assemblage.” She glanced carelessly about the room at the -groups of sedate-looking people gravely conversing with each other while -they strolled slowly, aimlessly about with much dignity and ceremony, -and an almost imperceptible sneer curled her full lips. “Oh, the stiff -formality of some of these Calvinistic old fossils!” she remarked -contemptuously to Robert. - -“From all such people, good Lord deliver us,” he replied in a low chant. - -“Amen!” cried Eppy, looking archly at Sir William. “Give me youth and -gayety always.” Sir William looked his unspoken scorn. - -“You and I may well sigh for youth, Miss McKay,” quavered the venerable -Dr. Blacklock. “Many moons have passed since he eluded our clutch and -fled, never to return,” and he sighed dismally. - -“Speak for yourself, Doctor,” bridled Eppy. “I shall never let go my hold -on youth,” and she tossed her head indignantly. - -“Speaking of fossils,” said Lady Glencairn pointedly, turning to Eppy, “I -wonder what can have happened to Mrs. Dunlop?” - -“Oh, she is always late for effect,” she replied spitefully. - -“Mrs. Dunlop is a very dear friend of mine,” observed Robert quietly, but -his eyes flashed with indignation. - -“I beg your pardon for my rudeness,” murmured Lady Glencairn sweetly. - -“I understand Mrs. Dunlop is chaperoning a new beauty,” said Lord -Glencairn inquiringly to his wife. - -She gave him a side glance that was far from pleasant. New beauty, -indeed! There was only one recognized beauty in Edinburgh and she would -not yield the palm to anyone. “I really do not know to whom you allude, -James,” she said coldly. - -The Duchess of Athol, who was standing near, smiled significantly. “Mrs. -Dunlop asked permission to bring a young friend, who was visiting her -from the Highlands,” she remarked pleasantly. “I do not know her in the -least, and they may not come at all.” - -“Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell!” announced the footman loudly. With a -smile on his handsome face and a hurried word of apology, Robert rapidly -walked to meet the approaching couple, who were the cynosure of all -eyes. Mrs. Dunlop was recognized by all as a woman of much importance in -Edinburgh society. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, for she was -the lineal descendant of the immortal Wallace, a fact of which she was -justly proud. She was a motherly looking woman, with a charming smile and -a pleasant, taking manner. - -But the murmur of admiration throughout the room was not for her; it was -for the slim little girl in white with the blue eyes and fair hair, which -glittered like gold beneath the brilliant light of the chandeliers. “Who -can she be?” they whispered to each other in wonder. “Evidently not a -person of importance, else she would be dressed in the fashion of the day -and have her hair powdered.” - -“At last, Mary, ye’re here!” cried Robert delightedly, placing her hand -within his arm. She clung to it with a nervous clutch. - -“The child is frightened to death,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, smiling -indulgently. - -[Illustration: “‘Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell,’ announced the footman -loudly.”] - -Lady Glencairn turned very pale, as she recognized the girl she had -met in Robert’s room. She trembled and could scarcely regain her usual -composure as Robert with a proud tenderness lighting up the depths of -his black eyes, led the vision of youth and perfect beauty up to the -hostess, to whom he introduced Mary. Then he turned to Lady Glencairn. -“Lady Glencairn, allow me to introduce to you Miss Campbell. You remember -Highland Mary, do you not?” - -She gave a slight start and her muscles tightened. The dairymaid -sweetheart here in Edinburgh? she thought in amazement. What could it -mean? - -“Quite well,” she answered, extending her cold jeweled hand. “I little -dreamed I should ever meet you here like this, but the unexpected always -happens.” - -“Dinna’ ye mind, my lady,” replied Mary simply, “ye said ye would be glad -to see me whenever I came to town.” She raised those marvelous, innocent -eyes of hers and smiled. Why did Lady Glencairn shrink from that frank -and childlike openness of regard? Why did she for one brief moment feel -herself to be vile and beneath contempt? She turned to where Mrs. Dunlop -was conversing animatedly with their hostess, a flush akin to shame -mantling her haughty face. - -“My dear Duchess,” she was saying apologetically, “pray pardon our late -arrival, but I assure you ’tis not made for effect; our carriage broke -down on the way.” - -Eppy started in amazement; had she overheard her spiteful remark? - -The Duchess graciously inclined her stately head. “So glad you got here -at all, Mrs. Dunlop,” she said. - -Robert turned laughingly to the group of eager people importuning him for -an introduction to the beautiful débutante. “Time forbids my introducing -ye individually to Miss Campbell,” he said good-naturedly, “therefore -let me present ye collectively to Highland Mary, my future wife, whom ye -have all read of an’ loved in my poems.” A ripple of applause greeted the -news, and congratulations poured in upon them, both hearty and sincere. - -Lady Glencairn staggered slightly, her face paling, but she quickly -recovered and stood haughtily erect, fanning herself a little more -rapidly, her full red lips tightened to a thin malicious line. - -Eppy rushed up to Mary effusively. “May I kiss you, dear?” she asked -gushingly, “you are so sweet and pretty, just like I was a few years -ago,” and she kissed the blushing girl with a resounding smack. “You’ll -be married in Edinburgh, I presume?” she continued volubly. “I must -attend the wedding.” - -“The marriage will be most private, madam,” observed Robert coldly. - -“Do you stay long in Edinburgh, Miss Campbell?” asked Lady Glencairn -abruptly, forcing a smile to her lips. - -“No, not long, your ladyship,” replied Mary timidly. The cold metallic -tones of the haughty lady frightened her strangely. “I—I ne’er thought -I’d e’er come to Edinburgh,” she said, “but——” She hesitated and looked -shyly at Robert, and then looked modestly down at the bit of cobweb lace -which she held in her hand and which did duty as a ’kerchief. - -“But I found the barrier between us was down, that I was free as ever to -wed the sweetheart of my boyhood days,” he explained with simple dignity. - -“Aye, but you make a bonnie couple,” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlop admiringly. -“Well, I don’t blame anyone for falling in love with you, Robert,” -she declared frankly. “You’re a great man,” and she nodded her head -vigorously. “And a handsome one, too.” - -Robert blushed and shook his finger in warning at his old friend, -although a tender smile played around his eyes and mouth. “Mrs. Dunlop, -men are said to flatter women because they are weak,” he said, “but if -it is so, poets must be weaker still, for the artful compliments I have -received from your sex have absolutely turned my head, an’ really I begin -to look on myself as a person of no small importance,” and he roguishly -winked his eye at his old friend. - -“I never knew a man yet who was averse to flattery,” retorted the old -lady good-naturedly. - -In the brief lull that followed the general laugh, the voice of Lord -Glencairn could be heard in conversation with Mary, who was earnestly -gazing up into his face, all traces of timidity gone, for she felt -singularly at her ease in the presence of the kindly old nobleman. “And -so you mean to take Robert away from us for good, eh?” he was saying in -his earnest, serious manner. - -“Ye ken he is fair anxious to get back to Mossgiel now,” replied Mary, -blushing deeply. - -Lady Glencairn snapped her fan together convulsively. “You mean to leave -Edinburgh for good?” she asked in faint, incredulous accents, turning to -Robert. - -The people crowded around and a storm of protest arose. “What madness!” -“Leave Edinburgh for the country!” “They couldn’t hear of such a thing.” -“He owed a duty to them as Scotland’s Bard!” etc., etc. - -Robert turned to them and spoke lightly, although with an undercurrent -of seriousness. “I ken I am but wasting my time, my energies, my talents -here, amid the sensual delight which your city affords,” he said. “I am -not formed for it. I am but a rustic at heart and in manners, and the -country is my only vantageground.” - -Mary stole softly to his side and snuggled her hand in his. “Isn’t it -sweet to be in love?” cried Eppy cooingly, to Sir William, in a sibilant -aside. “Think what we are missing.” - -“We’re too old for such nonsense,” replied Sir William gruffly. - -“Oh, indeed!” flashed Eppy. “Huh, a woman’s never too old to love,” with -an indignant toss of her head. - -“No, nor to make a fool of herself,” retorted Sir William, smiling grimly. - -“But we cannot give you up just yet,” declared Lord Glencairn -emphatically, placing his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder. - -“I am sure, Mr. Burns,” said Mr. Mackenzie gravely, “that your friends -and admirers would not advise such a move for you, especially as you are -now riding high on the top wave of success.” - -“I have nothing to gain by staying here, Mr. Mackenzie,” replied -Robert, turning to him and speaking slowly and thoughtfully, “for, as -you observe, I am now firmly established as a poet. I fear I am not -proof against the subtle temptations which constantly beset my path and -which push aside all thoughts of poesy; so as discretion is the better -part of valor,” he continued, looking lovingly at the girl clinging so -confidingly to his arm, “I shall flee from it all to my farm, my plow, -and there amid those innocent, wholesome surroundings pass my remaining -days in peace wi’ my wife by my side.” - -Mrs. Dunlop sighed dismally and shook her white curls in decided -disapproval. “Laddie, you will be taking a false step,” she declared -emphatically; “your place is here before the public.” - -“Indeed it is!” gurgled Eppy soulfully. “I protest Edinburgh cannot -spare its poet yet. Your old farm can wait for you yet a while.” - -Mary looked at his thoughtful face with anxious eyes. She prayed -fervently that nothing would dissuade him from his purpose. For it had -been at her earnest solicitation that he finally decided to give up the -enervating pleasures of the Capital, and to retire to the country where -he would be free from the contaminating influences which now surrounded -him. - -He smiled reassuringly into her perturbed little face. No power on earth -could tempt him to break the promise he had so willingly made her on that -first day of her arrival in the gay metropolis, he thought fondly. He -turned to his questioners, who were eagerly awaiting his answer, his face -shining with fixed determination. - -“My friends,” he said quietly, “I am only a farmer born, a son of the -soil. My one ambition now is to have my own roof-tree near the Doon, -where amidst the beauties of harmonious nature the Goddess Muse will -commune with me as of old, for ’twas there the greatest inspiration -of my soul came to me, and I know if all else fails me an independent -livelihood awaits me at the plowtail.” - -“Tut, tut, the plowtail, indeed!” sniffed Mrs. Dunlop indignantly. - -Lady Glencairn, who had been feverishly toying with her fan, turned -suddenly to Mary, a sneering smile on her crimson lips, “And have you no -higher ambition for your future husband, Miss Campbell?” she demanded, -her voice strangely harsh and metallic. “Are you content to have him bury -his talents in the country?” - -“Yes! Oh, yes!” answered Mary shyly, a happy smile dimpling her sweet -face. Then she added naïvely, “Ye ken, I’ll hae him all to myself then.” -Robert laughed merrily at this naïve confession. - -“Young man,” observed Mr. Sterne pompously, “take my word for it, you’ll -repent it if you leave Edinburgh now.” - -“Robbie, what will everybody think?” cried Mrs. Dunlop tearfully. “You -are daft to run away while the world is literally at your feet.” - -“For how long?” he asked laconically. - -“Until you tire of its homage, my lad,” replied Lord Glencairn stanchly. - -Robert shook his head with a doubting smile. “’Twill not be I who will -tire first, my lord,” he returned quietly. “I know myself and the world -so well. You see the novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, my -imperfection of awkward rusticity has raised a partial tide of public -notice which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely certain -my abilities are inadequate to support me.” He looked around a trifle -defiantly at the rows of serious faces, a little feeling of resentment -welling up in his heart. - -“You are over-modest, my dear Burns,” observed Mr. Mackenzie with -kindling eye. - -Robert shook his head with somber dignity. “Too surely do I see the time -when the same tide will leave me and recede as far below the mark of -truth.” He turned and faced the people suddenly, his hands outstretched, -his eyes filled with melancholy enthusiasm. Raising his voice he -proceeded prophetically, “My friends, you will all bear me witness, that -when the bubble of fame was at its height I stood unintoxicated, with the -inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward to the hastening time when -the blow of calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness -of revengeful triumph.” - -“That time will never come, Robert,” cried Mary softly, “for we will -leave this life behind us in a very short while noo.” - -Lord Glencairn slapped him on the back with playful earnestness. “Come, -come, my lad!” he cried gayly, “this will never do; you are in the dumps; -throw it off, lad, and be merry. Do not heed the idle gossip of your -unsuccessful rivals and the scandal mongers. Rest assured your popularity -and fame will never die whether you remain here or retire to the country.” - -“Would I could think so,” sighed Robert gloomily. - -Eppy suddenly gave a nervous little giggle. “I vow I feel like crying,” -she observed hysterically, “I wish everybody wouldn’t look so mournful.” - -Mr. Mackenzie turned quickly to his hostess. “My dear Duchess,” he said -courteously, “you were going to show us your new painting in which Mr. -Burns is the central figure of the group.” - -At once the silent group became animated. “Oh, yes, do!” cried Eppy, with -a yearning look at Robert. “I wonder if I could pick you from among the -others?” she coyly observed. - -“I trust, madam, that my phiz will be recognizable,” he replied dryly. - -The Duchess turned to her husband. “Take Miss Campbell and lead the way -to the gallery,” she said quickly. - -“Is Mr. Burns to take me?” inquired Eppy of her hostess, but she had -followed her husband, leaning on the arm of Mr. Mackenzie. - -Lady Glencairn smiled sweetly, “So sorry, Miss McKay, but Sir William has -asked for that pleasure.” - -“I?” gasped Sir William, with a comical look of dismay. - -She looked at him maliciously. “Yes, did you not?” she raised her -eyebrows inquiringly, an innocent smile hovering about her mouth. - -For a moment he sputtered, then with a grim smile he snarled -sarcastically, “’Twill afford me great pleasure.” - -With a wildly beating heart Lady Glencairn took Robert’s arm and started -for the stairs, followed by the others. - -Eppy sniffed suspiciously. “Oh, I understand now,” she observed -spitefully with a meaning smile. - -“I thought you would, dear,” flashed her ladyship mockingly, over her -shoulder. - -“Are you coming, madam?” demanded Sir William testily, offering his arm. - -With an indignant clack of her tongue, Eppy haughtily brushed past him -and swiftly mounted the stairs, leaving the disgruntled Sir William to -follow at his leisure. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -Among those that crowded around the carriage of Robert Burns earlier in -the evening, listening to his inspiring oration, stood a girl of twenty -or thereabouts, whose pale, haggard face and tearful eyes attracted -some passing attention from those near her. She was dressed in an ankle -length skirt of gray, over which a red shawl had been tastefully draped. -A black velvet bodice confined the loose white gimpe at the waist, while -from her left shoulder a brilliant plaid hung gracefully to the bottom -of her dress. Around her neck row upon row of different colored beads -hung loosely to her waist. Upon the blue-black hair which fell around -her face in waving masses, a wreath of white and pink heather was twined -becomingly. Her unusual attire attracted much attention. - -“She must be a gypsy,” they told each other wonderingly. Finally, after -many conjectures, someone in the crowd volunteered the information that -she was a street singer who had been seen singing through the streets -of the town for a day or so. Their curiosity appeased, they turned to -their idol once more. Every now and then a convulsive sob shook the young -girl’s slender, graceful figure. Like one who hungered for food and -drink she watched the speaker, her heart in her eyes, her hands clasped -tightly upon her breast. When the eager throng unhitched the horses from -the open carriage she had breathlessly watched every movement, and when -they, with wild bursts of applause and good-natured laughter, sped away -up Princes Street, pulling the carriage behind them, she had swiftly -followed, the center of a noisy gang of street urchins and idle brawlers. - -With a mighty cheer, which brought the watchmen running to the spot -pell-mell, they finally stopped at Athol Castle and quickly lined -themselves on each side of the striped awning avenue, from the curbing to -the door, to watch the great man pass within. - -The gypsy frantically elbowed her way through the pompous coachmen and -good-natured cabbies who had pressed forward to witness the new arrival, -and reached the inner edge of the crowd. At that moment Robert stepped -from his carriage and walked quickly up the avenue. With a little cry of -joy she stretched out her hands to arrest his attention, but he passed -inside without having once caught a glimpse of this strange follower. - -A derisive laugh went up from those who had curiously watched the -peculiar actions of the gypsy. At the sound she dropped her arms -hurriedly, the blood rushing to her pale cheeks. With one quick, startled -glance at the mocking faces beside her, she turned quickly and threaded -her way through the line of splendid equipages, with their prancing -horses, till she reached a secluded part of the street, where she stopped -and looked back at the brilliantly lighted castle, tears of bitter -disappointment and despair slowly trickling down her wan cheeks. As she -stood there in the bright moonlight, a prey to her bitter thoughts, a -handsome equipage, drawn by a prancing pair of steeds, attracted her -listless attention. As it slowly drove past the wretched girl a sweet -young face crowned with golden hair appeared in the open window, followed -by a white arm. Her little hand was noticeably bare of jewels. With a -sweet word of pity the girl tossed a silver piece at the feet of her -unfortunate sister. The gypsy indifferently watched the carriage out of -sight. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she stooped and picked up the -coin, and without looking at it put it carelessly in her pocket, a flush -of shame and mortification mantling her dark cheek. For a while she stood -in moody silence, listening to the strains of music which came faintly -to her from the castle. Suddenly she lifted her face to the heavens, -her arms upraised, her lips moving in some prayer or incantation. For a -moment she stood thus, then slowly her arms dropped to her side. There -was a new calm look of determination in her face as she quickly traced -her steps back to where the crowds still lingered about the closed doors -of Athol Castle. She stood on the outskirts of the crowd unseen in the -shadow, her restless eyes searching here and there, peering into the -open windows, up and down the high stone wall which bordered the huge -garden, then back again, finally resting upon the closed portals with -a look of keen disappointment shining in their depths. What she sought -was evidently not there. She stamped her foot in impotent despair, a -muttered imprecation on her lips; she would search again. Gradually she -made her way back unnoticed by the crowd, who were intent on listening -to the music which floated out bewitchingly on the still air, till she -reached the wall where it joined the corner of the castle. Motionless she -stood under its shadow, her heart beating loudly as some idler drew near -her place of concealment. Suddenly a form loomed up before her. With a -startled cry she pressed close against the ivied wall in sudden terror. - -“She come this way,” a voice cried eagerly. - -“Aye, Sandy, she’s hidin’ among the ivy,” said another. - -She heard them beating noisily about the thick vines which hung in -wild profusion over the walls, her heart in her mouth. Frantically -she tore the vines apart until she reached the bare wall behind. Then -with breathless eagerness she pulled them together again, effectually -concealing her presence from her pursuers. She pressed closer and closer -against the cold stones, shivering apprehensively as they approached -her hiding place. Suddenly she felt her support give way with a dull, -creaking noise, and before she could recover her equilibrium, she found -herself in a heap on the ground. She looked up in time to see the door -through which she had fallen swing quickly into place and realized that -unwittingly she had found an old and evidently unused entrance through -the wall. Quickly rising to her feet she looked about her, then she gave -a little cry of joy as she caught sight of the splashing fountains in -the moonlight, for she knew she was inside the gardens belonging to the -Duke of Athol. Eagerly she gazed about her at the leafy shrubberies, the -massive oaks and beeches, the rose garden with its wealth of scented -flowers. And for a brief moment she gave herself up to the painful -reveries the familiar sights recalled to memory, while the tears of -self-pity and heart-longing welled up in her gloomy eyes and flowed -unrestrainedly down her cheeks. Presently, with a mirthless laugh of -impatience, she dashed the tears angrily away and walked quickly up the -grassy terrace toward the brilliantly lighted castle. Through the large -window which looked over the low balcony she watched the incessant stream -of people coming and going, while others walked aimlessly about the -rooms or chatted in groups. For some time she crouched beside the low -silver spruce, her eyes fixed upon the moving scenes within. Then with a -start she recognized the golden-haired young lady who had given her the -silver piece, surrounded by a group of cavaliers. She saw, too, with a -pang of jealousy, the tenderness with which the poet greeted her and led -her up to the haughty lady in purple. For some time she watched them in -melancholy silence, a prey to conflicting emotions. By and by a group of -ladies drifted out on the balcony. They were discussing the golden-haired -girl, who had been introduced into their midst that evening, and the -announcement of her marriage to the poet, Robert Burns. The gypsy, as -she heard those words, uttered a smothered cry of amazement and horror, -then sank half fainting on the grassy lawn, moaning like one stricken -unto death. How long she lay there with senses dulled by pain she never -knew. Presently, bitter recollection returned and with it an agony of -fear that blanched her lips and made her limbs to quake, while grief and -despair, like two grim sentinels, stood eager watch beside her. Slowly -she staggered to her feet and turned her weary eyes once more upon the -balcony. There was no one there. Listlessly she watched the gay figures -darting past the windows. Suddenly her muscles tightened like a hound’s -on the scent. The golden-haired girl suddenly glided out on the balcony, -a glorious vision of loveliness. Pensively she leaned over the railing -watching the swans, which looked ghostly in the moonlight, swimming -majestically round and round the small pond of water into which the -spraying fountain was playing. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Mary soon grew weary of looking at the many paintings which lined the -walls of the galleries; she wished they would go back to the pretty rooms -downstairs, where the music was playing and the young folks were dancing. -She had enjoyed that. She tried to force a smile of interest to her lips -as the old Duke described the subjects on the canvases before them. -He soon perceived her weariness, however, and calling to Mrs. Dunlop, -who was being bored beyond measure, as she told her friends wearily, -he requested her to show Miss Campbell the gardens by moonlight, to -which she gladly assented. Quickly they descended the broad staircase, -and slowly wended their way across the large drawing-room. Mrs. Dunlop -took her young charge to the large window and waved her fat hand toward -the magnificent view which lay stretched before them. “Isn’t it grand, -Mary?” she observed lightly. It was an old story to her. Spying an old -friend across the room, she excused herself to Mary and told her to enjoy -herself, then smilingly left her to her own devices. After admiring the -somber beauty of Edinburgh Castle, Mary perceived the flowing fountain -which splashed tunefully below her in the garden. She stepped out on the -balcony, a smile of pleasure lighting up her sweet face. For a while she -stood listening to the rhythmic fall of the water, blissfully unconscious -of the presence of the unseen watcher. Suddenly before her startled -vision there sprang the form of the gypsy. With a cry of alarm Mary -stepped back and was about to enter the room, when a voice calling her by -name arrested her wondering attention. - -“Wait, Mary Campbell!” hissed the voice of the gypsy. - -Mary turned and looked into the white face gazing up at her so -defiantly, and she recognized the girl to whom she had tossed the money. -Suddenly she gave a gasp of astonishment. “Jean Armour!” she exclaimed -incredulously. - -“Aye, Jean Armour,” repeated the gypsy. “Come down to me; I must have a -word with you alone,” she whispered sibilantly. - -Mary gave a quick look around. Mrs. Dunlop was still deep in her gossip, -and Robert was nowhere to be seen. She walked to the end of the balcony -and found the steps. Quickly she reached the bottom, and going to Jean -took her two hands in hers and shook them warmly. She was so glad to see -anyone from Mossgiel, friend or foe. - -Jean regarded her advance with sullen suspicion. “Two years ago I was an -invited guest here at Athol Castle,” she sneered bitterly, “while you -were a barefooted dairymaid in Mossgiel. Now look at us. You are the -lady and I am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.” - -Mary looked at her in amazement. “But what has happened?” she asked -wonderingly. - -“My father has turned me into the street,” answered Jean dully. - -“Had ye done wrong?” inquired Mary timidly. - -Jean laughed mirthlessly. “Wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to -marry an old man I detested be wrong.” - -“An’ your father turned ye out for that?” - -“For that,” she replied stonily, “and because I refused to give up Robert -Burns.” - -“But—but ye gave him up long ago, Jean, of your own free will,” faltered -Mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “An’ your father wrote -Robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced -all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never -to see or hear o’ him again.” - -A look of hatred spread over the face of the other. “My father lied -when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity, “for I told him -I would never renounce my marriage to Robert, irregular though it was, -and I never will. He is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the -shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes. -For a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the -words stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it -reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and dizzy. There was -a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her -eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony -passed over her pallid face. - -“Oh, Robert, my love, have I lost ye again?” she thought dully. “I knew -it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” There was a choking sensation -in her throat, but she did not weep. As in a horrid dream she heard -the sharp metallic voice hissing in her ear, “He is my husband, Mary -Campbell. You must give him up to me.” She roused herself out of the -lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily -pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed her large pathetic eyes on -Jean, who instinctively shrank back before the speechless despair of that -helpless gaze. “But ye have no claim on Robbie noo, Jean,” she faltered -slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” She -paused and her pale lips quivered. “Why have ye come here noo to disturb -him?” she asked with infinite pathos. “He is happy, so happy noo. Dinna -destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. Ye took him from me -once; dinna separate us again.” Her voice broke and a hard sob choked -her utterance. A great pity welled up in Jean’s heart for the stricken -child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly quiet. -Presently Mary spoke again. “I hae nothing in this world, Jean, and I -love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’. -We have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’ -stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.” -Her voice rose to passionate pleading. “Oh, what is your weak fancy -compared to such a love, Jean Armour?” she asked piteously. “Oh, I tell -you I canna give him up to you again.” She sank down convulsively on -the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low -heart-breaking sobs. Tears of sympathy slowly filled Jean’s eyes as she -watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she -hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and -pitiable condition. - -“You must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” She paused -a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing -and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with -ease and grace through the dignified measures of the minuet. By and by -she turned to the drooping form and spoke again. “My God, girl, don’t you -suppose I too love him!” she exclaimed passionately. “Why have I tramped -mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults, -struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?” - -Mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness. -“Your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she -said with pathetic simplicity. “He never loved ye, Jean Armour, ye ken -that weel.” - -Jean winced at the blunt truth, and a quiver of anger passed over her -defiant face. “I know that only too well,” she replied bitterly. Then -she gave a little mocking laugh, which nevertheless held a suggestion of -tears. “You may have his heart, Mary Campbell,” she continued, “but I am -what you can never be, his wife and the mother of his bairns.” - -“The bairns,” repeated Mary blankly, “are they alive, Jean?” - -“Yes, they are alive, thank God!” murmured Jean softly, “that is why I am -here, Mary, that is why I must demand my rights, for my bairns’ sake.” -Then she continued quickly, feverishly, “Had it not been for them I would -have done my father’s bidding, would have forgotten Robert, renounced him -utterly, and married the man my father had chosen for me, but I wanted my -little ones to have the protection of a father’s name, so I stubbornly -refused his commands. After my father had driven me from his door with -curses on his lips, I discovered too late that Robert had tried again -and again to see me, had even begged my father to allow him to legalize -our marriage, and that his overtures were met with scorn and abuse. Then -I decided to come to Edinburgh myself to tell Robert the truth and to -claim my rights.” She paused defiantly. - -Lady Glencairn upon her return to the drawing-room had missed Mary, -and upon learning from Mrs. Dunlop that she was upon the balcony, she -sauntered slowly in that direction. As she stepped through the window she -heard the low murmur of voices, and looking down perceived with amazement -the young girl seated below her in company with a fantastically-dressed -gypsy. Suddenly, with a start, she recognized the voice of Jean Armour. -Hastily concealing herself behind a large marble pillar she listened in -growing wonder, her face becoming hard and repellent, to the direful -confession of her god-daughter. - -“I arrived in Edinburgh after a month of hardships,” continued Jean with -suppressed excitement, “and to-night I saw him in all his prosperity -entering the castle like a king, looking so handsome, so contented, and -so very happy.” - -“Yes, he is happy noo,” replied Mary softly. “Happier than he’ll e’er be -on earth again, perhaps,” and she closed her eyes wearily. - -For a moment there was silence, broken only by the monotonous hum of -voices and the faint twanging of the harp from within the drawing-room. -Presently Mary opened her eyes and spoke again. - -“Ye maunna blame Robert for anything at a’, Jean,” she said loyally. “He -thought the bairns were dead, an’ he believed your father’s words, but -noo, when he kens a’, he will do his duty nobly for his bairns’ sake.” -She smiled bravely into the eager face of the other. “Ye have the right -to him, Jean, I see that noo,” she continued sadly, “an’—an’ forgive my -rude and unkind words to ye just noo,” and gently she held out her little -hand. - -Jean took it tenderly in her own. “What will you do now, where will you -go?” she asked with a feeling of remorse. - -“I shall go back to Colonel Montgomery’s,” replied Mary, in a sad, -spiritless voice, from which all the life seemed to have fled, “where I -can see my friends sometimes. Mistress Burns loves me, an’ I—I may see -Robbie, if only from the window as he passes. It willna harm anyone.” -She looked at Jean in a pleading, timid manner, while her mouth quivered -pathetically, but she forced a wan smile to her pale lips and then slowly -turned and walked toward the stairway. As she mounted the bottom step -Jean ran quickly to her side and clasped her hand impulsively. - -“Mary, I’m so sorry for you,” she said pityingly, “but I’m doing it for -my bairns’ sake, ye ken that.” - -“I understand, Jean,” answered Mary simply, “I dinna blame ye.” She -leaned back against the marble balustrade. “But, oh, it’s hard, bitter -hard,” she murmured brokenly; “if I could only die here and noo.” She -stretched out her hands with a sort of wild appeal. “Oh, Robbie, my -darlin’,” she exclaimed in a sobbing whisper, “how can I tell ye, how can -I break your heart? I thought ye had drunk your cup o’ misery empty, but -the dregs are yet to be drained.” - -The sympathetic tears rolled down Jean’s face. “Will you tell him I’m -here, Mary, and that I must see him at once?” she asked pleadingly. Mary -slowly bowed her head in assent. “Oh, how I dread to meet him,” continued -Jean in a frightened whisper, “to have him look at me with stern and -angry eyes; to know that he longs to be free, and that he wishes me dead, -perhaps.” She covered her face with her hands and shivered apprehensively. - -“Ye needna fear, Jean,” replied Mary, with reproachful pride. “Robert -Burns is a mon of honor; ye should know that weel. I’ll go noo an’ tell -him ye are here.” For a moment she swayed as if about to fall, but she -recovered herself in an instant and slowly mounted the few remaining -steps to the balcony. As she reached the top she pressed her hand against -her heart as if that action would still its rapid beating. “Heaven give -me the strength to tell him,” she breathed, and, with a little prayer -on her lips, she slowly entered the drawing-room, where she found Mrs. -Dunlop anxiously looking for her. - -Jean watched her for a few moments, then, with a sigh of nervous dread, -she turned and paced restlessly up and down within the deep shadows -beneath the overhanging trees. She had only taken one turn when she felt -herself seized by the arm and drawn into the bright moonlight. Smothering -the startled cry of alarm which rose to her lips she turned and faced her -assailant. “Lady Glencairn!” she gasped, starting back in astonishment. - -“So, Jean Armour,” hissed her ladyship, “’tis you whose name has been -coupled so disgracefully with that of Robert Burns.” - -Jean dropped her head quickly, flushing crimson before the scornful light -in the other’s eyes, which flashed like stars in the pale moonlight that -came streaming down upon them. “Then you have heard?” she faltered, after -a little frightened pause. - -“Yes, I have heard everything,” her ladyship returned witheringly, “and -my suspicions of you of two years ago have turned out to be right.” - -“Please say no more now, Lady Glencairn,” retorted Jean sullenly. “Let -me go.” She tried to pass, but Lady Glencairn put a restraining hand -upon her shoulder. “I will say no more, you foolish girl,” she replied -angrily. “Why do you insist upon thrusting yourself upon Robert Burns, -to-night? He utterly detests your memory. He has done with you forever.” - -Jean looked at her defiantly. “I am his wife. He must acknowledge me,” -she declared firmly. - -Lady Glencairn laughed scornfully. “You foolish child, do you think -he will ever forgive you for stepping in between him and Mary Campbell -again?” she asked with studied indifference. “No, he would hate you; you -know his erratic temper, my dear Jean; you would but ruin your chance for -a reconciliation forever, if he sees you now, when his heart is torn by -grief and sorrow at losing for the second time the one lass who is all -the world to him.” She paused and watched narrowly the look of dread and -doubt creep slowly over the downcast face before her. - -By and by Jean looked up, her eyes burning with unshed tears and shining -feverishly. “What shall I do then, Lady Glencairn?” she asked helplessly, -“where shall I go?” - -Lady Glencairn did not answer for a few moments. She was thinking with a -thrill of joy that Jean’s coming would separate the two lovers forever. -“More than likely Robert would now remain in Edinburgh,” she mused with -wildly beating heart. “But, on the other hand, if he stayed he would -quixotically marry Jean Armour, and publicly right her in the eyes of the -world,” she thought jealously, “and then——” She broke off and stared at -the girl intently. “If she were out of the way,” she thought maliciously, -“might not his fickle fancy be caught in the rebound?” These thoughts -flowed quickly through her brain, and her eyes half shut wickedly, her -gleaming white bosom heaving from her hurried breathing, as she decided -on her course. “You must leave here at once,” she said softly, taking -Jean’s hand with an affectation of tenderness. - -“I cannot return to my father,” she replied dully. “I have nowhere to go -now.” - -“Go to an inn for to-night,” said her ladyship hurriedly, “and I’ll come -to you in the morning and advise you as to your future movements, and -help you.” - -“But I must see Robert first.” - -Lady Glencairn frowned impatiently. “Foolish girl, take my advice and -wait until to-morrow. You will lose nothing by it, for I will myself -plead with Robert in your behalf.” - -Jean did not answer. She stood mute and undecided. - -“Surely, my dear Jean,” continued Lady Glencairn mockingly, “you don’t -expect him to proclaim you as his dearly beloved wife before them all, do -you?” She waved her hand carelessly toward the drawing-room. - -Jean flushed and looked away. “No, I didn’t come for that,” she muttered -slowly. - -“Then why not do as I advise? I know that when the keen edge of his grief -has worn off he will willingly take you to his heart and by a church -marriage make you his lawful wife,” and she threw her warm arm over the -shoulders of the yielding girl. - -Jean gave a nervous little laugh. “I vow, Lady Glencairn, I have not -the courage to meet him now,” she said. “I—I thank you gratefully for -your kindness. I—I know ’tis better to wait——” She paused and sighed -dejectedly. “You’ll find me at the Star and Garter Inn in King’s Court,” -she said quickly after a moment’s indecision. Then she drew her scarf -hurriedly about her shoulders as if anxious to get away. - -At that instant a laughing group of people came out on the balcony. Lady -Glencairn hastily drew her back in the shadows. “Go, go quickly!” she -whispered, “before you are seen.” With a panting word of thanks Jean -glided through the bushes, and, skirting the patches of light, she soon -reached the secret door through which she had so unceremoniously entered -and passed out to the street now deserted, save for the motionless -coachmen asleep on their boxes. Lady Glencairn breathed a sigh of relief -as she watched Jean fade out of sight, swallowed up in the darkness. -“Both out of the way now,” she murmured, a triumphant smile on her full -crimson lips. She walked quickly toward the balcony. “What a contemptible -creature I have become,” she thought with careless unconcern. “And all -for love of a low-born peasant,” and she laughed derisively, as she -mounted the steps. She slowly entered the drawing-room, feeling strangely -nervous and guilty, to find a great many people going to supper. Robert -had grown tired of the heat and glare and noise, and seeing Mary sitting -so weary and wan looking, surrounded by a crowd of admirers who worshiped -at the shrine of youth and beauty, he crossed quickly and whispered his -wishes to her. She rose gladly and both advanced to bid their hostess -farewell. - -“Sorry you cannot remain longer,” said the Duchess with genuine -cordiality. “You must bring Miss Campbell some afternoon to see me, Mr. -Burns, when I am not receiving the public,” and with a pleasant smile she -bade them good-night. Slowly they made their way through the crowd and -met Lady Glencairn coming swiftly toward them. - -As her eyes rested upon his happy countenance she knew that he was -still in ignorance of Jean’s arrival in Edinburgh. “Won’t you have some -supper?” she inquired brightly. “Don’t go yet.” - -But Robert quietly insisted, as he perceived Mary’s increasing languor -and pallor. So Lady Glencairn, with anger and disappointment gnawing at -her heart, for she had hoped to show him the beauties of the garden by -moonlight before he went, seeing that remonstrances were of no avail, -bade them both an effusive good-night. “Don’t forget my garden party -to-morrow,” she said with a patronizing smile, touching Mary’s cold hand -lightly. “I shall expect you,” and she turned to greet her husband, who -was approaching with Mr. Mackenzie. - -“Thank ye, your ladyship,” answered Mary simply, making a little -courtesy. - -“Let me escort you to the carriage, Miss Campbell,” said Lord Glencairn, -at once offering her his arm. - -“And allow me to follow,” added Mr. Mackenzie, slipping his arm through -Robert’s, to whom he whispered, “How dare you, sir, how dare you be such -a provokingly happy man in this miserable old world?” Robert laughed, and -they all walked slowly down to the carriage, conversing gayly on their -way. - -Suddenly Mary stopped with a little exclamation of dismay. “We’ve -forgotten Mrs. Dunlop,” she said contritely. - -With a laugh Lord Glencairn dispatched a footman to find her, and the -good lady soon appeared, flushed and panting from her hurried departure. -With a last handshake all around Robert sprang in beside them and within -a couple of minutes the carriage was out of sight. - -“Ye were the queen of the evening, Mary, just as I told ye ye’d be,” said -Robert triumphantly. “Have ye enjoyed yoursel’?” - -“Ay, for a whiley,” answered Mary listlessly, leaning back against the -heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. She had had no -opportunity as yet to tell Robert the dread news, and her heart was -filled with misgivings as she thought of Jean waiting patiently in the -garden for him to come to her. She started up suddenly, resolved to tell -him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of Mrs. Dunlop, -cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable. -If she didn’t tell him to-night what would Jean do? With her usual -unselfishness she gave no thought to self. She was miserably unhappy, but -she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. Her whole -thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged, -and of Jean and her bairns, Robert’s bairns. She sighed quiveringly, and -a little pang of jealousy shot through her heart like a breath of fire, -but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be -there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. She -clasped her hands together feverishly. “Should she whisper to him now, -tell him all and bid him drive back to Jean?” she asked herself in an -agony of indecision. At that moment the carriage stopped at the door -of Mrs. Dunlop’s mansion. It was too late now. She gave a little sigh -of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. Robert -escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her -sweet air of refinement. She looked very frail and spirituelle, as she -turned to him quietly and bade him good-night. - -“Has something gone wrong, Mary?” he inquired solicitously, noticing with -alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness. - -She shook her head slowly, not daring to trust her voice. Mrs. Dunlop -put her arm about her fondly. - -“The lassie is tired, Robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no -wonder. She’ll be as bright as a lark in the morning.” Bidding them both -a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the -carriage, and drove off toward his chambers, whistling softly to himself -the tune of “Mary of Argyle.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -The next day a grand garden party was given at Glencairn Hall. All -Edinburgh was invited, and they came eagerly to see the great poet, who -was on the eve of leaving the social world to retire to his farm in -Ayrshire, and to see Highland Mary, the dainty, flower-like sweetheart of -their idol. The grounds looked very bright and gay. Refreshment booths -of red and white canvas were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet -lawns. Bright flags of all nations waved from different parts of the -gardens—signals of putting, archery, and dancing—and the seductive music -of the Queen’s theater orchestra rose up and joined the songs of birds -and the tinkle of the fountains in full play. Girls in light summer -costumes were grouped picturesquely beneath the stately oaks and beeches. -Gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and stray couples were -seen sauntering carelessly through the rose gardens, too much absorbed in -each other to notice what was going on around them. - -Presently out of the same rose garden a man walked hurriedly, followed -by a woman, who quickly overtook him, to his perceptible annoyance. They -were Sir William Creech and Eppy McKay. Eppy looked exceedingly ugly in -the full glare of the bright sun. She was dressed in a brilliant plaid -gown, the style of which seemed to accentuate her angularity; and a huge -Gainsborough hat was perched jauntily upon her towering court wig. Her -small green eyes looked coquettishly at her irate companion. He stopped -and glared at her fiercely. - -“But I desire to take a smoke,” he said wrathfully. - -“I don’t object to smoke, Sir William,” she tittered coyly. - -He looked about him wildly as if seeking some means of escape from his -admirer. “But I wish to be alone,” he cried almost pleadingly. - -She opened her eyes and regarded him reproachfully. “Oh, you are joking, -Sir William, but you cannot scare me away.” - -With a groan of despair he continued his walk, hoping to escape from his -persistent admirer. “Great heavens! I’ll go daft yet,” he muttered as he -perceived her close at his elbow. For a few minutes he puffed furiously -at his pipe, casting angry glances from time to time at his unwelcome -companion, who trotted along so contentedly at his side. Finally Sir -William concluded that he could not elude her attentions for the time -being, so decided to make the best of the infliction. “Do I go too fast -for you?” he asked maliciously, as he heard her puffing away vigorously -beside him. - -“No, indeed,” she replied with a little breathless giggle. “You couldn’t -go too fast for me, for I am as light and quick on my feet as ever I was. -In faith, why shouldn’t I be?” she continued gayly. “I am only 32. You -see I am so much younger than you.” - -He snorted angrily. “Well, you don’t look it,” he retorted. She stopped -short and looked at him in amazed indignation. - -“What?” she quavered, a little out of breath, “I don’t look younger than -you?” - -At the sign of approaching tears, Sir William frowned impatiently. “I -mean you don’t look—32,” he said diplomatically. - -She simpered and thanked him for the compliment. - -He smiled grimly as he said to himself, “She’s over 60 if she’s a day.” - -“They all tell me I don’t look my age,” she said gushingly. “It’s my -artistic soul that keeps me so young and fresh-looking.” They sat down -on a bench, glad of the opportunity to cool themselves after their -strenuous walk. “Do you know,” she said dreamily, fanning herself, “I am -very different from most artistic people.” He looked at her. “Oh my, yes, -indeed!” she affirmed convincingly. “I don’t live in the clouds, I am of -the earth earthy,” and she gave him another languishing look. - -“Ye don’t tell me,” he retorted mockingly. - -“But I love art,” sighed Eppy ecstatically. “When I was young,” she went -on reminiscently, “I mean when I was younger,” she corrected herself with -a startled look at her silent companion, “I came near having a painting -from my own hand hung in the National Gallery.” - -“You are a clever woman,” he remarked sarcastically. - -“It was this way,” she explained volubly. “I had painted a lovely marine. -I do marines much better than anything else,” with a self-conscious -smirk, “and upon showing it to Mr. William Nichol, a dear man, but one -who drinks to excess, he promised to mention it to the Lord Mayor. Well, -it made me exceedingly nervous, I vow. However, I bought a most lovely -frame for it, Nile green in color, with sweet red plush ends.” She -cleared her throat affectedly and continued with evident delight. “I do -like things to match,” she explained, “and the green was the exact shade -of the water. It was simply exquisite.” She clasped her hands together -and rolled her eyes heavenward. “And the red ends exactly matched the -cow, which was a lovely shade of——” - -“Cow?” echoed Sir William in amazement. “Did I hear you say cow?” - -Eppy looked at him pettishly. She didn’t like to be so violently -interrupted. “Certainly a cow,” she returned frigidly. “Is there anything -strange in a cow?” and she drew herself up with an injured air. - -“No, there’s nothing strange in a cow when it is by itself,” replied Sir -William dryly, “but in a marine, well, it is a little hard on the cow.” - -“You don’t know what you are saying, Sir William,” flashed Eppy -indignantly. “Please don’t interrupt me again. The cow I have reference -to was in one corner drinking. I heard Lady Nancy Gordon telling Mrs. -McLehose that the cow looked as if it were trying to drink the ocean dry; -the idea!” and she clucked her tongue against her teeth in contemptuous -scorn. “She’s a cat,” she continued spitefully; “I never could bear her. -She was uncommon jealous of me, yes, indeed, but that’s another matter.” - -Sir William turned crimson, and seemed about to choke, as he tried to -smother his laughter. “You were telling me about your marine,” he finally -stuttered. - -“Don’t hurry me, Sir William,” said Eppy coquettishly. “Well, I took it -to Lord Mundobbo. You know whom I mean; at that time he had something to -do with the National Gallery; Mr. Nichol didn’t inform me as to his exact -connection with it.” She paused and gazed soulfully into space. “Shall -I ever forget the day? The sun was high in the heavens—but there,” she -broke off with a deprecating smile. “I really must restrain my poetic -impulse. But as I was saying,” she rambled on quickly, “the sky was -overcast and threatening snow——” - -“I thought the sun was shining, Miss McKay,” interrupted Sir William -gruffly. - -She was beginning to get on his nerves again. “I am a little mixed in -my metaphors,” apologized Eppy condescendingly, “but you flustrate me -so, Sir William,” and she tapped him playfully with her fan. “Well, I -felt that victory was mine. I took off the paper—it was pink, tied with -a yellow string—and laid it before him.” She paused impressively, then -she continued in an elocutionary tone of voice. “He gazed at it long and -silently. He was simply speechless. I knew he’d be. I said to him, ‘Lord -Mundobbo, as much as it grieves me to part with my—ahem—masterpiece, -for the sake of art I will permit you to add it to the collection -of paintings in the National Gallery.’ Said he, ‘Miss McKay, really -I appreciate this honor you do me and the National Gallery. It is a -masterpiece of its kind, but I cannot accept it.’” - -“The brute!” exclaimed Sir William in mock anger. “Why not?” - -“He said if I would change the ocean into a fresh water pond and give the -cow a chance, he might consider it,” and Eppy tearfully regarded her now -laughing companion with an aggrieved air. - -“Did ye do it?” inquired Sir William, rising to his feet. - -“Did I do it!” repeated Eppy with horror expressed in every tone of -her voice, every feature of her pointed face. “No, sir,” she replied -emphatically. “Never would I willingly spoil a work of art. That was -my first and only. I couldn’t improve on it. But my artistic soul was -smothered, and now another, a poetic spirit has taken its place.” She -smiled dreamily, a sigh of content escaping her parted lips. - -“A case of the survival of the fittest, eh?” he retorted brusquely. - -For a moment they walked on in silence, Sir William wondering how to -get rid of the incubus, and Eppy happy over the impression she fondly -imagined she had made upon Sir William. Just then a bend in the avenue -brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the hall, -where Robert’s handsome figure was outlined clearly against the dazzling -blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near him. He seemed to be -in animated conversation with some of them, and his face was radiant -with smiles. With a cry of delight, Eppy hurried forward to greet him, -forgetting Sir William utterly, much to his amazement. That she, or -anyone, would dare leave him so unceremoniously to join Robert Burns -angered him beyond measure. He followed her slowly at some little -distance, with no very pleasant expression on his stern features. - -Later in the afternoon when it was close to sunset, and all other -amusements had given way to the delight of dancing Sir Roger de Coverly -on the springy green turf to the silvery music of the orchestra, Mary -and Mrs. Dunlop put in their appearance. Mary was looking very beautiful -in a clinging, old-fashioned white crepe de chene, another old relic of -Mrs. Dunlop’s dead and gone slim youth. While they danced, she reclined -languidly in a low chair, her sad eyes fixed mournfully upon Robert’s -glowing face as he lay stretched in lazy length at her feet. The day had -passed and still she had had no opportunity to tell him the dire news, -for she had not seen him since the night before. - -While the dancing was in progress a liveried page walked noiselessly over -the turf and stopping beside the recumbent figure of the poet, quietly -handed him a note. He leisurely opened it and read it at a glance. “Say -I’ll be right there,” he said to the waiting page after a moment’s -meditation. He excused himself to Mary and the others and followed the -man indoors, with a frown of impatient wonder clouding his brow. - -Under the shadow of a noble maple, Lady Glencairn was seated in earnest -conversation with her uncle. Her ladyship was looking exceedingly -beautiful in a pink-flowered summer silk, which puffed and billowed -around her, with a bunch of white heather at her breast and a wreath -of the same dainty flowers in her picturesque Leghorn hat. She held a -pink-lined parasol over her head, and from under the protecting shadow -her dark lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded her scolding -companion. Suddenly she gave a start and leaned forward to watch the -group opposite. She had noticed the quiet entrance of the servant and -the immediate departure of the poet, and idly wondered who it was that -desired to see Robert on such urgent business that they must needs -follow him here. The minutes passed and still he did not return. She -was growing anxious. “Suppose”—and she started violently at the sudden -thought—“suppose it was by some unfortunate chance Jean Armour herself?” -She rose quickly to her feet, with a word of apology and after a quick -look around, in which she noticed Mary’s pale face and restless manner, -she walked leisurely toward the house. Once inside she rang for the page -and upon questioning him learned that the young woman who had insisted -on seeing Mr. Burns, and who was none other than Jean Armour, as she -concluded from the man’s description, had just gone, and that Mr. Burns -was now seated in the drawing-room alone. Hastily dismissing him, she -stole softly into the parlors, and there beside the table, his face in -his hands, sat Robert, his shoulders heaving convulsively. She looked -at him a moment and the tears of pity came into her luminous eyes. Then -softly she walked to his side and laid her cool hand upon his feverish -head. “Robert, I am so sorry for you,” she said gently. - -He lifted his head with a start and rose quickly to his feet. It didn’t -occur to him to ask what she meant or to inquire how she knew what had -happened in that room, and she was secretly glad that he demanded no -explanation. “Where is she?” he asked dully. - -“She has gone,” she answered quickly. “I—I met her at the door and -offered to assist her, gave her money and advised her not to make any -unnecessary scandal in town, but to return to her home at once. You know -she is my godchild. So she promised to go, and I presume she is now on -her way.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she glibly told this -falsehood. She didn’t know what arrangements he had made with Jean, but -she daringly made the lying explanation, confident that he would believe -it, for he could have no possible reason for suspecting her motives, or -any means of finding out at present that she had not indeed met Jean, who -might have altered her plans at the last moment. - -A look of anger came over his face for a moment, then as quickly died -away, and his eyes filled with a hopeless, despairing look. He walked -slowly to the window, his hands clenched together behind him, and stood -there, pale and miserable and wretched, gazing out upon the scene of -happiness he had just left. - -Lady Glencairn watched him with eyes filled with passion, and her heart -beat with painful thuds as she fought against the desperate longing -to throw herself into his arms and comfort him. She glided quickly -to his side and put her hand gently within his arm and stood there -in sympathetic silence although she was consumed with jealousy as -she watched his melancholy eyes riveted on the fair face of his lost -sweetheart. For a while they stood there in gloomy quiet. Presently a -deep, heartrending sigh, which was almost a sob, escaped his trembling -lips. - -“An’ we were so happy a few minutes ago,” he murmured brokenly. “An’ -noo ’tis all over.” He paused and bit his lips convulsively. Presently -he went on in a dull, low tone as if speaking to himself, “How true it -is, there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.” Lady Glencairn pressed his -arm tenderly, but remained silent. “What have I to live for noo?” he -continued with despairing mournfulness. - -“Everything, Robert,” murmured her ladyship tenderly, gazing up into his -face with glittering eyes. - -He turned and looked at her in wonder. As he saw the feverish flush on -her face, felt her hot breath on his cheek, he remembered with a start -her peculiar words and meaning looks at Athol Castle the night before. -Lady Glencairn noted with apprehension the look of stern coldness spread -quickly over his face, and the nervous tears of disappointment and -passionate longing welled up in her eyes. Then with reckless abandon -she dropped her head against his shoulder and let the tears flow -unrestrainedly. For a moment Robert stood there speechless with surprise -and horror, for he knew at last that what he had vaguely feared was an -indisputable fact; knew that his hostess, the wife of his dearest friend -and counsellor, entertained a guilty passion for him. It filled him with -righteous anger that she would willingly betray the love and confidence -of the noblest gentleman in the kingdom. He placed the weeping woman in a -chair and stood looking down upon her with a frown of displeasure. “Lady -Glencairn,” he said coldly, “if these tears are for my unhappy fate, I -thank ye for your sympathy.” - -She caught his hand and held it tightly within her arm. “Oh, no, no, -Robert, ’tis not that,” she whispered passionately. “Do you not remember -the Lady of the Lake I told you of last evening?” He made no reply. Then -she continued slowly, her voice low and shaking, “Read my fate in that of -hers.” - -Still he would not understand her. “I fear I do not understand your -meaning, my lady,” he replied, trying to withdraw his hand from her -grasp, but she held it firmly. - -“Cannot your heart understand mine?” she cried recklessly. “Does it not -pity my wretchedness?” - -He was silent for a moment. He knew he could no longer parry with -her, for her words and meaning were too plain to admit of any -misunderstanding. He turned to her, his face set and firm. “Lady -Glencairn,” he said sternly, “you dishonor yourself by such madness, -and all for naught. My heart is noo numb with sorrow, it could feel no -throb of yours, even were I vile enough to see no evil in usurping your -husband’s rights.” - -“Do not remind me of my unhappiness!” she exclaimed impatiently. “I -married him when I was a girl, before I knew what love was. Then you came -into my life, and I knew that the fire of love was not dead within me.” -Her rich seductive voice trembled with passion. - -“I pray you cease!” he entreated her, but she went on rapidly. - -“Let me speak, Robert!” she cried, clinging to him frantically. “I can no -longer contain myself, for I love you better than my life, better than my -honor, my good name; I care not for them now. Oh, pity me, pity me!” and -she flung herself down on her knees before him and burst into a storm of -irrepressible weeping. - -Robert looked around apprehensively. The thought that someone might -suddenly enter the room filled him with alarmed dismay. With a quick -movement he raised her to her feet, and his voice trembled with deep -feeling when he next spoke. “I do pity you,” he said sorrowfully, “but -I pity your husband more, when he learns of your faithlessness.” He -paused and regarded her with reproachful sadness. “Oh, why have you -severed forever the threads of our friendship by such imprudence, such -rashness?” As he finished he bowed his head and walked slowly toward the -door. - -“Do not leave me like this!” she panted desperately. “Can’t you see -you are killing me by your coldness.” She held out her arms in piteous -entreaty as she continued tenderly, “Tell me you didn’t mean it, Robert. -Say you are but testing my love for you.” - -He turned on her quickly and at his look of contemptuous scorn she -drooped her head and the hot blood rushed to her face. “Are you lost to -all sense of prudence, honor and decency?” he cried in scathing accents. -“Heaven knows I’m no moralist, no saint,” and he gave a mirthless little -laugh as he thought of the opinion Edinburgh had formed concerning his -morality—then he went on firmly, solemnly, “But I would sooner cut this -erring heart of mine out of this body than fall so low as to betray the -honor of my friend who trusts me.” She started to speak again, but he -raised his hand quickly. “Say no more, Lady Glencairn,” he said with calm -dignity, “an’ I’ll forget this distressing conversation, and continue -thro’ life to respect equally with himself, the wife of my friend.” - -Slowly the warm color faded from her cheeks, leaving her ashy pale, -while through her suddenly narrowed eyelids a vindictive light gleamed -tigerishly. - -“You’ve said enough!” she hissed through her clenched teeth. “I have -lowered myself to you as I would to no other man living, only to be -scorned and humiliated. God!” she laughed wildly, hysterically, and threw -herself face downward upon the ottoman. “Fool, fool!” she cried with -bitter self-abasement. “How I hate and despise myself for what I have -done; would I had died before I had uttered such damning words,” and she -beat her jeweled hands frantically against the cushions. - -“I beseech you to be careful, Lady Glencairn,” cried Robert in amazed -alarm, going to her. - -She turned on him fiercely. “You, of all men, posing as a model of virtue -and goodness, prating of husband’s honor, wife’s duty.” She measured -him with a scornful, sneering glance of fury. “You, who have the name -of making love to every female in petticoats who crosses your path, you -hypocrite!” - -Robert fixed his eyes upon her in silence and the utter scorn of the -look stung her heart to its center. Presently he controlled his anger -sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eying her with that straight, -keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said in cold, deliberate accents, -“Your ladyship has been misinformed as to my past conduct. I do not claim -to be more than human, but I know my name is as yet clear from the taint -of dishonor.” - -“You poor fool, you country yokel!” she stormed furiously, walking up and -down between him and the door like a caged lioness. “Did you think you -could scorn such a woman as I with impunity? Do you think I will stand -the humiliation of being repulsed, despised, shamed? I tell you no, no, -never; ’tis but a step from love to hate, you should know that.” She -paused in her nervous walking and stood facing him, her eyes ablaze with -the uttermost anger, her beautiful figure drawn rigidly erect. “You shall -be made to feel the depth of my hatred before long, Robert Burns,” she -threatened, and there came a dangerous gleam in the flashing, dark eyes. - -“I shall leave Edinburgh within the hour,” replied Robert quietly. Was -there ever such another unfortunate being as himself? he thought grimly, -and a wave of unutterable sadness rushed over him. - -“Aye, that you will,” retorted her ladyship with a sneering, bitter -laugh. “But not as you anticipate, with the plaudits of the world ringing -in your ears. Instead of that, only contemptuous silence will greet your -departure as you leave here in shame and disgrace, and when you have -sunk once more into poverty and oblivion, you will repent bitterly ever -having made an enemy of Alice Glencairn.” As these words left her lips, -she swept haughtily past him like an outraged queen and left the room, -leaving him standing there like one in a trance. - -He brushed his hands across his eyes as if to assure himself that he -was awake, that he wasn’t the subject of some hideous hallucination, -but no, he was painfully conscious of the reality of it all. He heaved -a deep sigh and sank wearily into a chair, his eyes riveted upon the -floor in melancholy meditation. A little cry aroused him from the -profound gloom into which his thoughts were plunged and looking fearfully -up, dreading lest her ladyship had returned, his eyes rested upon the -white, startled face of Highland Mary. She had watched him leave the -grounds with listless curiosity, which changed to wonder and dismay when -Lady Glencairn rose from her seat and sauntered toward the hall. For -some minutes she nervously sat there wondering vaguely why he stayed -so long and why her ladyship had followed him. Presently she rose and -mechanically made her way over the springy sward toward the house. She -couldn’t have told why she went or what she intended to do. She wondered -in a vague way if Robert’s message could in any way concern Jean, but her -thoughts dwelt longer upon the suspicions that had been raised in her -innocent heart against her beautiful hostess, for she had recognized her -as the bogus Lady Nancy in spite of the disguising mask, suspicions that -filled her with uneasiness and alarm; and yet why should she be jealous? -She told herself sadly she had renounced him forever, given him back to -Jean, and in a few days she would pass out of his life forever. Oh, the -agony that pierced her heart at the recollection of her past happiness! -How fleeting it had been—scarcely a week. She had drawn near the window -by this time quite unconsciously. Suddenly the sound of voices within the -room made her pause. She had not thought to listen nor meant to, but when -she heard the passionate pleading voice of her ladyship and the stern -replies from Robert, a feeling of fascinated horror took possession of -her, rooting her to the spot. Motionless she stood there and heard all -that passed within the room. And when the voices stopped and all was -deathly still, she peered through the window. At the sight of her dear -one sitting there all alone, with that look of intense suffering on his -face, her heart cried out to him in sympathy. Quickly she opened the high -French window and noiselessly stepped into the room. For a moment she -stood watching him, her eyes filled with patient sorrow, infinite pity, -and a world of loving compassion. Involuntarily a deep sigh escaped her. -As he raised his head she went quietly up to him and placed a tender hand -upon his arm. After one quick, heart-broken look at her he buried his -face in his hands again. - -“Dinna distress yoursel’, laddie; I have known since last night at Athol -Castle that our happy dream was ended.” She felt him stiffen beneath -her touch. “Jean came to me in the gardens,” she explained with patient -resignation. “I should have told ye last night, for she was waiting for -ye to come to her, but I—I hadna’ the courage.” There was silence for a -moment, then he spoke in a low, spiritless tone. - -“Jean said that ye knew all,” he said without looking up. They remained -quiet after that, plunged in bitter thought. There was nothing they could -say to comfort each other, the wound was bleeding too freely as yet. -Presently Robert raised his head, and with a despairing gesture pushed -the heavy curls back from his fevered brow and rose unsteadily to his -feet. They must get away at once, he thought feverishly. He took Mary by -the hand and started for the door, when from the open window he heard -his name called. Turning apprehensively he beheld Sir William Creech -entering, followed by Lord Glencairn and several of his guests. In his -hand Sir William held a newspaper, while a hard smile of triumph wrinkled -his stem face. - -“I told ye, Robert Burns, ye would overreach yourself,” he cried -jubilantly, shaking the newspaper at him. - -Robert looked at him apathetically. “Ye were ever a bird of ill omen,” he -said quietly. “What have I done noo?” - -“You have seen fit to sign your name to an article in this paper, which -has aroused the indignation of all Edinburgh,” replied Sir William -without any preamble. “’Tis a most seditious article and shows that ye -have embraced the doctrines of the French Revolution.” - -“A man has a perfect right to his opinion,” said Mrs. Dunlop decidedly, -giving Sir William a scornful look. - -“Indeed he has,” echoed Eppy, nodding her head briskly. “I mean to stick -to mine.” - -Lord Glencairn turned and looked searchingly at Robert’s pale, gloomy -face. “Is that true, Robert?” he asked gently. - -Robert did not reply. He seemed not to hear, in fact. - -“’Tis a most serious charge, Mr. Burns,” remarked Mr. Sterne gravely. - -“If it be true,” retorted Mr. Mackenzie loyally. - -“Which is not at all likely,” flashed Eppy indignantly. - -She would believe nothing wrong of her hero, even if it were proven in -black and white. - -“But listen!” continued Sir William eagerly. He scanned the article -through quickly until he found what he sought. “Ah, here it is. It is -stated here that Mr. Burns refused to stand up in the theater recently -when ‘God save the King’ was being played,” and he glared about him -indignantly. - -A quiet sneer curled Robert’s lips. “Anything else?” he asked -sarcastically. “Out wi’ it or the venom of your spleen will poison ye,” -and he fixed his eyes upon Sir William with disdainful indifference. - -“And there is more,” snarled Sir William. “’Tis known that ye have -sent two cannon to the French Directorate with a complimentary letter, -offering further assistance.” - -“Oh, no, no, impossible.” cried Lord Glencairn incredulously. - -“And,” continued Sir William vindictively, “there’s also a full account -here which explains much of Mr. Burns’ reprehensible conduct here in -town, as well as in Ayrshire, where it seems his amours were as numerous -and questionable as they are at the present time.” - -“For shame, Creech!” cried Lord Glencairn with indignation. - -“How fascinating he must have been even when a farmer,” giggled Eppy -aside to Mrs. Dunlop, who was casting indignant glances at Sir William. - -“’Tis a libelous article,” she flashed angrily, “and I for one do not -believe a word of it. Robert,” she said, turning to the silent figure -standing so pale and calm before his inquisitors, “deny this absurd -charge before it is given further credence!” - -“He cannot deny it,” said Sir William. “His name is at the bottom of it,” -and he held it up to their view. - -“And I’ll attempt no denial,” replied Robert in a full ringing voice, -“for I know it would be useless. Know, then, that I do sympathize with -the French people in their struggle for freedom, and I did help them all -that lay in my power. I hope that France may gain the prize for which -she is fighting, a free and independent republic, and that she may set -up her standard of liberty and independence as did the United States of -America, when they were delivered from the toils of the British.” - -There was an uncomfortable silence when he had finished his declaration. -His amazed and incredulous listeners could hardly believe they had heard -him aright. They looked aghast at each other, not knowing just how to -take it. Their embarrassed silence was soon broken, however. - -“Ye hear those seditious sentiments,” cried Sir William in an -I-told-you-so tone of voice. - -Lord Glencairn shook his head gravely. “’Tis dangerous to speak thus, -Robert,” he said with solemn earnestness. “You should be careful——” - -“Careful of what?” interrupted Robert with impatient scorn. “Lest I -offend people with my plain speaking of the truth?” He paused and looked -around him with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils. “Who is careful of -my feelings?” he demanded. “Not those who think themselves my superiors -by accident of birth.” He turned to Sir William Creech and continued -quickly, his voice vibrating with suppressed indignation. “I’ve never -wronged ye, Sir William Creech, yet ye are miscreant enough to seek my -ruin, for I’m fair sure ’twas ye yourself who inserted that scurrilous -article in that paper ye hold in your hand, in which my faults, my past -errors and follies are now being aired.” - -Sir William turned a sickly color. “Think what you like,” he muttered -savagely. “’Tis time the people of Edinburgh knew the character of the -man they are honoring.” - -“Sir William Creech, you are an old brute!” cried Eppy, her little gray -eyes flashing fire, and going up to him she continued in haughty disdain, -“Remember, sir, I will have naught to do with you in the future; I turn -my back on you,” and she suited the action to the word. - -Meanwhile, Robert had spoken in an undertone to Mrs. Dunlop, and that -good soul, putting an arm around Mary, who stood white and trembling -like a frightened child, walked to the door, and Robert, after a formal -inclination of his head, started quietly but proudly after them. They -had reached the door, when it suddenly opened and Lady Glencairn stood -upon the threshold, her head held haughtily erect, her lips curled in a -disdainful sneer. She entered the room and closed the door behind her, -then turned and faced the wondering group which was being augmented -by the entrance, through the window, of a number of the guests whose -curiosity had been aroused by the unusual scene to which they had been -listening in speechless amazement. - -“Alice, what has happened?” cried Lord Glencairn in an alarmed voice. -Her ladyship’s white, nervous face, the peculiar glitter in her eyes, -startled him out of his usual calmness. - -“James, I am deeply sorry to wound you,” she began nervously, “but it’s -best that you should know how grievously you have been betrayed by one -of your honored guests here to-day,” and she fixed her narrowed eyes upon -the startled face of Robert Burns. - -A great fear of impending danger came over him as he saw the revengeful -look which she flashed at him, and he involuntarily straightened himself -as if to receive a shock. There was a surprised movement among the crowd, -and a low murmur of many voices broke the tense stillness which followed -her accusation. - -“I—betrayed?” repeated Lord Glencairn, in astonishment. “What mean you, -my dear?” - -“I mean,” she answered, and the lie rolled glibly off her crimson lips, -“that your distinguished guest, Robert Burns, has to-day wantonly and -without provocation grossly insulted the wife of his friend and host.” -As the ignoble lie left her lips, there was an audible indrawn breath of -startled surprise from the amazed listeners. Then they turned and fixed -their wondering gaze upon the accused man, who, after an inarticulate -exclamation of horror, stood as though carved out of stone. - -“I for one do not believe it,” cried Mrs. Dunlop indignantly, and she -returned Lady Glencairn’s look of haughty displeasure with a withering -glance of scornful disbelief. - -“Nor I,” echoed Eppy, with a youthful toss of her head. - -“What was the nature of the insult, Alice?” asked Lord Glencairn -gravely. No doubt she had taken offense where no offense was intended, he -thought indulgently. - -Before she could answer, Robert stepped quickly up to her with flashing -eyes and lips trembling with anger. “Madam, that I have had the -misfortune to offend ye, I am sorrowfully aware,” he said with bitter -sarcasm, “but that I have been guilty of offering ye an insult, none -knows better than yourself how little cause ye have to accuse me of -such monstrous ingratitude, such a contemptible betrayal of the laws of -hospitality. I am quite willing that you should repeat every word of the -conversation that passed between us in the room a few minutes since, and -if aught that I have said can be construed as an insult to your ladyship, -then do I stand ready and whiling to abide by the consequence of such an -indiscretion.” He looked her straight in the eyes, and with folded arms -calmly waited for her to speak. - -Not long did she return the look, however, for the utter scorn of it -stung her guilty heart to its core. Not that she felt any compunction -for what she was doing—her whole soul was up in arms against him, and -she would not stop until she had meted out her spiteful revenge upon him -to the fullest extent. His evident contemptuous defiance irritated her -beyond measure—she was angrier with him than ever—already she had a sort -of strange feeling of triumph at the vengeance she had designed, for she -knew that her word would be believed against his; even now she could read -suspicion and conviction in many of the serious faces that surrounded -her, much to her satisfaction. He had thrown down the challenge, had he? -Well, she would take it up. No one knew what had passed between them save -themselves, and no one would ever know the truth, and the truth would now -be a very small factor in working out her present scheme of vengeance. -All these thoughts flashed quickly through her mind, and her answer -was ready on her lips almost soon as he had finished speaking. With -well-simulated indignation she drew herself haughtily away from him, with -a gesture of repulsion. “Dare you deny your protestations of love and -devotion?” she replied. “Why, my lord,” she continued scornfully, turning -to her husband, who was now regarding Robert with serious, thoughtful -eyes, a look of wounded pride and deepening sorrow gradually shadowing -his noble countenance, “before I could stop him he had fallen upon his -knees and begged me to be false to you, and to give him my love, my -favors.” - -“Great God!” cried Robert, staggering back, white and speechless, while -a wave of the blackest despair engulfed him completely, for he knew that -the outrageous lie had sealed his doom as utterly as though it had been -the truth; knew that all denials from him would be useless in the face of -that accusation. He sank back into a chair in helpless resignation, his -independent spirit, his haughty pride wounded almost unto death. - -When Mary heard the lying accusation she started forward with a little -cry on her lips. Freeing herself from Mrs. Dunlop’s restraining hand, she -took a few steps toward Lord Glencairn, her face aglow with indignation, -her timidity, her fear of the great ones surrounding her, forgotten for -the moment, as she sought to defend the man she loved. - -“My lord!” she cried thrillingly, “’tis not true; Robbie did not insult -her ladyship, for I——” - -But, with an angry flush, Lady Glencairn interrupted her. “I say he did,” -she retorted harshly. Then, as Mrs. Dunlop drew the frightened girl away, -she continued with insulting emphasis, “James, bid this man and his -virtuous Highland Mary begone at once! Their presence here is an insult -to respectable people,” and she flashed them a malicious look. - -“Alice, Alice!” exclaimed Lord Glencairn, in accents of deep reproach, -“that is unworthy of you.” - -Robert felt as though he must choke with fury. He forgot the presence of -Lord Glencairn. He forgot everything but his just indignation. “My God!” -he cried passionately, striding up to the sneering woman, “you dare to -speak so—you!” - -“Yes, I!” she returned coolly, eying him disdainfully up and down. “What -have you to say against me?” She drew herself up imperiously. - -“Only this,” replied Robert in a low, tense voice, “ye may say what you -will of me, but as ye value your happiness, do not breathe aught against -the fair name of Mary Campbell.” - -She uttered an angry exclamation, but remained speechless and so pale -that her lips were devoid of color. If he were dishonorable enough to -tell everything, she thought, with a thrill of fear, it would make -things decidedly embarrassing and humiliating for her, besides giving -her enemies a choice bit of scandal, which they would use to excellent -advantage. - -At this point a few of the guests, feeling decidedly uncomfortable and -very much _de trop_, quietly left the room, but the others, and the room -was filled, held their ground, shamelessly reveling in the extraordinary -scene, the like of which had never before been seen in an Edinburgh -drawing-room, which was being enacted before them. - -“Robert, lad,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, in a loud aside, “ye must say -something. Deny this charge. I know you are innocent of any wrong doing. -Speak, tell his lordship so!” and she pointed to where he stood crushed -and silent, in speechless sorrow. - -“What can I say, Mrs. Dunlop?” replied Robert, in an agony of indecision. -“Would ye have me flatly contradict her ladyship and accuse her of -lying?” He paused a moment with patient sadness. “Nay, nay, friend, there -is nothing I can say noo that will smooth matters or clear me in the eyes -of the world.” - -“But you must tell them the truth,” insisted Mary. “Dinna’ let them -believe this monstrous thing of you.” She looked indignantly at the cold -repellent face of her ladyship, and continued fearlessly, “She’s a bold, -wicked woman, and she seeks your ruin!” - -“How dare you, you insolent creature!” hissed her ladyship furiously, -while the amazed guests looked in open-mouthed amazement at the demure -little dairymaid so suddenly transformed, standing with head thrown back -and eyes flashing accusingly. - -But Robert remained rigidly silent. He would not be so base, so -ungrateful as to shatter his benefactor’s belief in his wife’s honor, her -veracity, he told himself in a spirit of self-sacrifice. He owed all he -had in the world to him, and he would remain silent for his sake, and he -kept his eyes fixed unresponsively on the rug at his feet, but the little -drops of perspiration stood out on his brow, as he fought against the -temptation to clear his good name from ignominy. - -Throwing open the door Lady Glencairn pointed to it dramatically, -“There’s the door, Mr. Burns,” she said insolently; “do not compel me to -call my servants.” - -“Jezebel!” muttered Mr. Mackenzie through his clenched teeth. - -“If he goes I go too,” flashed Mrs. Dunlop, casting an indignant look at -her hostess. - -“So will I,” echoed Eppy. - -“Wait!” cried Mary vibrantly. Her silvery voice rang out above the -confusion, as the guests moved about among themselves asking all sorts -of inane questions, exploiting their views upon the subject—some loudly -extolling Lady Glencairn’s attitude in the matter and others as stoutly -defending the bard. Instantly there was an astonished hush. - -“My lords and ladies,” continued Mary thrillingly, “listen to me! I tell -ye that Robert Burns is innocent o’ this contemptible charge laid against -him. I know it, for I was outside the window yonder an’ heard all that -passed between him and her ladyship.” - -“Spy!” hissed Lady Glencairn between her teeth, unheard in the hubbub of -voices which had commenced again with Mary’s statement as the subject of -comment, then she laughed mockingly. “How absurd,” she cried to those -about her. “My dear James, let us end this scene. I will not stay here to -be insulted. Come, my friends, let us retire,” and she took her husband’s -arm. - -“Ye shall listen to the truth, all of ye!” cried Mary resolutely. -Clasping and unclasping her little hands with nervous intensity, her -eyes filled with determined purpose, she faced the fickle crowd that was -regarding her with such open admiration for her stanchness, her bravery. -“I heard her ladyship swear to ruin Robert because he spurned her -unwomanly offers of love,” she declared, with convincing earnestness. - -A guilty flush reddened the creamy pallor of her ladyship’s face. “Oh, -the shame of it, my lord, to be thus humiliated before my guests!” she -cried, bursting into nervous tears. “Surely, my lord, you would not -listen to such monstrous tales,” she pleaded. - -“Oh, believe me, I speak the truth,” exclaimed Mary, a great fear in her -heart as she saw the tender look Lord Glencairn bestowed upon his weeping -wife. - -He was torn and spent by conflicting emotions. He did not doubt his wife, -yet the words of the young girl rang true, and there was only truth -and nobility stamped upon the gloomy face of the poet. What was he to -believe? How could he decide? His confidence in his wife had never yet -been shaken—yet, stay—there was once when—but he would not think of that -time, it was so long ago, yet think of it he did with uneasy misgivings. -If she had deceived him once, might she not again? he asked himself -fearfully. - -“Mr. Burns, will you assure me on your word of honor as a man that you -are entirely innocent of any intentional insult to Lady Glencairn?” asked -Mr. Mackenzie bluntly. He had taken his place beside Robert, along with -Mrs. Dunlop and Mary and Eppy McKay, together with a few more of Robert’s -sympathizers and stanch believers in his innocence. And now he asked the -question in hope of eliciting some explanation, some excuse, anything, -from the silent man. - -Robert raised his head and without looking at any one particular person, -answered simply, indifferently, as many thought. - -“I have always held Lady Glencairn in the highest respect and -admiration,” he said quietly. “She alone knows what is the end she aims -at, by attributing feelings to me with regard to her which I have never -conceived, and words which I have never uttered.” And he sank once more -into his listless attitude. - -Lord Glencairn passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered manner. “You -were ever truthful, Robert,” he muttered so low that none but his wife -heard his implied doubt of her. - -She turned on him witheringly. “My lord, you insult me by lending an -ear to aught he or his witness can say in his behalf,” she exclaimed -frigidly. Then, turning to the onlookers, she continued with insolent -innuendo in words and manner, “You all know the infatuated attachment of -this maid for Mr. Burns, who has bewitched her until she is ready to -sacrifice every consideration of truth, reason, or duty to shield her -guilty lover.” - -“What a scandal this will cause throughout Edinburgh,” whispered Eppy to -Mrs. Dunlop, who was almost beside herself with speechless indignation by -this time. She had been listening with growing anger to Lady Glencairn’s -insolent falsehoods, for she knew they were falsehoods, and she would -never believe that Robbie would belittle himself by lying, for he was -too brutally frank and truthful at times to be thoroughly an agreeable -companion. - -Eppy’s inopportune remark was the straw that broke the camel’s back, -and she turned on her hotly. “Hold your tongue, ye old busy body!” she -exploded violently, nearly knocking the astonished Eppy down by the -suddenness, the unexpectedness, of the retort. - -“I was never so insulted in my life,” Eppy gasped tearfully, making -little dabs at her eyes with a dainty ’kerchief, and casting hurt, -reproachful glances at the blunt old lady, who, after delivering her -shaft at the unoffending Eppy, turned to Lord Glencairn, the fire still -flashing in her determined eyes. - -“Lord Glencairn,” she said, with a touch of defiance, “you may forbid me -your house hereafter, and indeed I hardly believe I will be welcome,” -with a look at the scornful face of her hostess; “but I care not; I -believe in Robert’s innocence, and that Mary Campbell has only spoken -the truth.” A few nodded their heads to each other in approval. Lord -Glencairn stood mute, a prey to the doubting fear which gripped his heart. - -Her ladyship, with one quick look around at the wavering faces of her -friends, knew that she was losing ground, and the color faded from her -cheeks. A look of nervous fear came into her steely eyes. She must -restore their shaking confidence in her—but how? It gave her a strange -feeling of satisfaction to know that whatever the outcome, she had ruined -his popularity for the present, but she wanted to ruin him utterly—to -turn every door in Edinburgh against him. If she could only get someone -to speak in her behalf, she thought prayerfully, as she looked about her. -Suddenly her eyes rested on the saturnine features of her uncle, who was -regarding her with a malicious smile of triumph. An eager light came into -her hard eyes. He hated Robert Burns; he would help her out if anyone -would; she would risk it. His word coupled with hers would instantly turn -the tide in her favor. And risking all upon the throw, she called out -loud enough to be heard above the murmur of voices, “Uncle, it seems my -word is not fully believed,” she said, with a little pitying, disdainful -smile, which brought the flush of embarrassment to the cheeks of several, -who happened to catch her eye; “so if you will oblige me by relating -what you know of the unpleasant circumstances, perhaps your word will -be accepted by our doubting friends.” Her lazy voice was replete with -insulting sarcasm. - -All eyes turned to look at Sir William, who, after one quick, angry -glance at the cool, smiling face of his strategic niece, cleared his -throat with irritating precision, and, without glancing at the startled -face of his victim, who had started to his feet upon hearing the amazing -request of her ladyship, spoke quickly and harshly, a faint tinge of -color dying his yellow skin as the dastardly lie left his lips. - -“I overheard Mr. Burns’ insults to my niece,” he said firmly. “I was -standing behind the curtain there,” pointing to a large window, “where I -had gone only a moment before Lady Glencairn entered the room, to glance -out of the window, having heard a noise without, and before I could make -my presence known, Mr. Burns had thrown himself upon his knees, and—and I -did not disturb them,” he concluded lamely. - -“Ye perjurer!” cried Robert furiously. “By heaven, I could choke ye with -your own lie!” and he turned white with passion. Sir William cowered -back, a look of fear in his shifty eyes. - -“Oh, Robbie, take me hame, take me hame,” gasped Mary, with -heart-breaking pathos, and she sank half fainting in the chair Robert had -vacated. - -“Come, James, let us retire,” said Lady Glencairn sweetly, casting -a look of grateful triumph at her uncle. “I am sorry you have lost -a friend, but I could not shield him,” and she pressed his arm with -affected tenderness. Slowly, sorrowfully he allowed himself to be drawn -to the door. - -“My lord!” cried Robert hoarsely, “have ye no word to say to me? Ye have -heard the proofs of my innocence; will ye not believe them?” and his -whole soul was in his eyes as he eagerly searched the downcast face of -his old benefactor. - -Lord Glencairn gave him one sad, reproachful look. “Oh, Robert,” he said -brokenly, “and I trusted you so.” - -Robert dropped his hand, which he had extended pleadingly, and a flush -mounted to the roots of his hair, which quickly faded, leaving him paler -than before, while a look of wounded pride and unutterable bitterness -flashed into his stern face. - -“I will attempt no further denial, my lord,” he said slowly, with quiet -dignity. “Calumny has at last reared its vicious head to strike like some -venomous serpent, seeking to crush me in its enveloping folds. The genius -of the Bard is ignored, forgotten—only my obscure birth, my sins, my -indiscretions, my faults are remembered now,” and he smiled with mournful -bitterness. - -“Ye have been too puffed up with pride and vanity,” cried Sir William -brutally. “Edinburgh has tired of you.” - -Robert gave a scornful little laugh. “Why,” he asked, looking around at -those who had been only too glad to fawn upon him a few moments before, -“because I am no longer a curiosity for the vulgar to gaze at?” He spoke -with biting sarcasm. He paused a minute, then continued bitterly. “Oh, -fool that I have been! At last my eyes are opened to my true position -in your world of society. How I hate and despise the hypocrisy of you -so-called some-bodies! How you fawn and smirk and bow down to wealth -and position, while the man of genius, of avowed worth is disbelieved, -dishonored, and insulted! God, the humiliation of it all!” His eyes -flashed with righteous anger and the indignant scorn in his voice cut -deeply through the thin skin of more than one of his listeners. “I have -endured the insults heaped upon my head to-day in bitterness of spirit -and in silent scorn,” he continued stormily, “but noo my outraged manhood -at last rebels, and I throw down my gage of contemptuous defiance.” - -“Robert, calm yourself, laddie!” whispered Mrs. Dunlop apprehensively, -laying a restraining hand upon his arm, which trembled with excitement. - -“Your friends will never believe aught against you, Mr. Burns,” exclaimed -Mr. Mackenzie, with deep feeling in his voice. - -“My friends!” repeated Robert wildly. “I have none, I want none in this -purse proud city. No longer will I submit to insulting condescension. No -longer will I skulk into a corner of the street like the veriest nobody -on earth, lest the rattling equipage of some gossiping titled blockhead -mangle me in the mire.” - -“Robert, I have always loved you,” exclaimed Lord Glencairn, with -rebuking reproachfulness. - -“But ye believe the worst of me noo,” replied Robert passionately. “It -only needed this scene of scandal to show my friends in their true -colors.” - -“Then go back to your low-born friends where ye belong,” snarled Sir -William vindictively. - -“I mean to go back,” retorted Robert, his face flushing crimson, “and -with gladness will I shake the dust of this unjust city off my feet.” -A softer look came over his haggard face and his eyes filled with a -yearning look of utter heart-weariness, a sudden longing for the blissful -quiet of his country home. A tender sweetness came into his voice as he -continued softly, “I will return from whence I came, to the plowtail, -where the poetic genius of my country found me and threw her inspiring -mantle over me.” - -Mary took his hand in hers, and with infinite tenderness murmured fondly, -“An’ ye’ll find the banks an’ braes of bonnie Doon holding out their arms -to welcome ye back to your native heath once more, laddie.” - -“Let us hope he’ll shine to better advantage there,” sneered Sir -William. A nervous little titter broke the tense silence. - -Robert turned on him, goaded to sudden fury. “Ye bird o’ ill omen!” he -panted hoarsely, “I have never injured ye; I have brought money into -your empty pockets. But ye will repent bitterly for swearing away my -life as ye have this day, for e’en though I leave Edinburgh in shame and -disgrace, ’tis not for ay. Nay! I thank God my works will live after me, -that my name will yet become immortal.” His words rang out wildly and -with impassioned intensity. - -Lady Glencairn laughed mockingly, and, turning to some of her friends -standing near, she made some low-toned remark, evidently a sarcastic -witticism at the expense of the speaker, which elicited a burst of hollow -laughter from her listeners, who, while they wished to remain in the -favor of the leader of Edinburgh society, stood in wholesome awe of the -blunt speech, the scornful wit of the brilliant poet on trial before them. - -“Ye vain boaster!” scoffed Sir William loudly, “you’ll be forgot within a -week,” and he laughed derisively. - -“Ye may scoff, ye may laugh,” retorted Robert hotly. “Ye may call me -egoist if ye like, but I know what I have done for my country—I have -attuned my wild artless notes to sing her praises, joys, and sorrows, -and I know those songs will live forever in the heart of every true -Scotsman.” Suddenly, like a ray of sunshine which dispels the morning -mist, his dark haughty face took upon itself a noble, thoughtful, rapt -expression—his wildly flashing eyes softened—his furrowed brow smoothed, -and, fixing his luminous eyes upon the disdainful face of his hostess, he -continued with melancholy pathos and prophetic solemnity, “Ah, my lady, -ye have trampled my good name low in the dust to-day, but my prophetic -spirit tells me the day is coming, even though ye an’ all my traducers -here be dead, rotted and forgot, when one name will be remembered, -cherished and proclaimed above all others of Scotland, aye, the world, -and that name, my lords and ladies, will not be of any rich titled -somebody! Nay, ’twill be that of the plowman-poet of Ayrshire, Robert -Burns.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -The situation in which Robert now found himself was calculated to awaken -reflection. The time had come, so he gloomily told his friend, Will -Nichol, the morning after the garden party at Lord Glencairn’s, for him -to abandon the gayety and dissipation of which he had been too much -enamored; and all that day he pondered seriously, if gloomily, on the -past, and formed virtuous resolutions respecting the future. He had weeks -ago made up his mind to settle himself for life in the occupation of -agriculture, and now that Edinburgh had tired of his peculiarities, and -the novelty of his appearance had become an old story for them, there -was nothing left for him to do but to start in on his new life as soon -as possible. To further that end he called upon Sir William that day and -demanded a settlement. When he left the office he found himself master -of nearly £500. With the money in his pocket he again called on Will -Nichols and requested him to assist him in the selection of a farm. With -his advice and assistance he soon decided to lease the farm of Ellisland, -on the banks of the River Nith, just above Dumfries. When he had in this -manner arranged his plans for the future his generous heart, which -was sore and bleeding from the many wounds it had recently received, -wounds which seemed to the suffering man that would never heal in this -life, turned in pity and remorse to the mother of his child—a thrill of -yearning stirred him strangely as he thought of the little one—his son—a -warm feeling of love welled up in his heart as he softly repeated the -words; and listening to no consideration but those of honor and duty, and -a strange feeling of growing affection, which made him pause in wonder, -he sought out Jean at the Inn, having learned that she was still in -town, contrary to Lady Glencairn’s assertion, which he had believed; and -there, with his friends surrounding them, they were joined in a public -declaration of marriage, thus legalizing their union and rendering it -permanent for life. - -Mrs. Dunlop and Mary had not been present at the ceremony. Mary was -confined to her bed in a state of nervous collapse, and Mrs. Dunlop, much -as she loved Robert, and honored him for the noble step he was taking, -could not leave the stricken girl. It was her wish and determination to -keep Mary with her as long as she could content herself there. Her kind, -motherly heart ached in silent sympathy for the child who had received -such a bitter disappointment, and who was bearing her sorrows with such -patient fortitude. Before Robert left the city she wrote for him to come -and see her, assuring him of her continued friendship, etc., etc. That -evening found him seated beside his stanch friend in whom he confided -his hopes and his fears for the future, and soon he had poured out -the bitterness of his heart, the yearnings of his soul, all the cruel -disappointments of his tempestuous life. She listened in sympathetic -silence, a smile of encouragement, every now and then, lighting up her -face. When he had finished, she told him how proud she was of him, -how she gloried in his strength of purpose, his new-made resolutions, -cautioned him not to forget the new vows he had so lately formed, warned -him of the many vices, the back-sliding state into which one of his -temperament was so apt to fall. Then with infinite tenderness she told -him of the courage of the sweet maiden who now lay upon her bed of sorrow -in the upper room, told him of her loyalty, her pride in his greatness, -in his nobility, while he listened with the burning tears streaming -unchecked down his quivering cheeks. After a pause she took him by the -hand and led him softly to the door of Mary’s chamber. “For the last -farewell,” she whispered sadly. Then she left him standing before the -door, gazing at it as though it were the gates of Heaven which were about -to open for him at his bidding. A sweet voice bade him enter, in answer -to his timid knock, and softly opening the door, he stepped into the room. - -Mary opened her beautiful, tired blue eyes, thinking it was her dear -benefactress, and then what a divine rapture—what a dazzling wonder and -joy flashed into them, giving them back their old luster of sunlight -sparkling on an azure sea. She sprang up in her bed and stretched out her -arms. - -“Robert!” she cried sobbingly. “Oh, Robbie, my darling.” - -Mrs. Dunlop came back and softly closed the door on the sacred stillness -that followed. Then she slowly wended her way down to her sitting-room -and sat down with a deep sigh. “What a sad old world this is,” she -thought. The time dragged along very slowly as she patiently waited for -Robert to come down. Presently she heard the door above close ever so -gently, and then his low footfall down the thick stair carpet. She rose -and met him in the reception hall. He stood on the lowest step, his hand -on the balustrade, his breast heaving with the strain of his emotions. -Mrs. Dunlop took his hand tenderly and pressed it in loving sympathy. - -By and by he spoke, and the intense suffering in his voice touched her -keenly. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he muttered brokenly. She could -only press his hand in silent sympathy. Gradually his grief became quiet -and a look of melancholy resignation came over his expressive face. - -“When will you leave the city?” she asked quietly. - -He thought a moment. “My affairs will be settled by the week’s end,” -he replied, “then I shall go straight to Ellisland. I——” He paused a -moment, then straightened himself, and continued in a firm voice, “Jean -has gone to Mauchline. She will remain there until the house at Ellisland -is in condition to receive her.” He held out his hand. “And now, dear, -good friend, good-by.” - -“No, not good-by, laddie,” she answered tearfully. “Just _au revoir_, for -I mean to visit you some day,” and she smiled through her tears. - -With a last shake of the hand, he left her, while above stairs a sweet, -wan, tear-stained face, pressed close against the pane, watched his bowed -figure striding moodily toward his lodging, watched it as it faded, -growing dimmer and dimmer, till it was lost to sight. - -[Illustration: Robert Burns] - - - - -BOOK III - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - Now spells of mightier power prepare, - Bid brighter phantoms round him dance; - Let flattery spread her viewless snare, - And fame attract his vagrant glance; - Let sprightly pleasure too advance, - Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her zone; - Till last in love’s delicious trance - He scorns the joys his youth has known. - - -When Robert reached Ellisland the evening sun was flaming over the -distant western hills. Not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, -or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poet’s heart. -He stopped his horse by the door of the cottage and stood silently -regarding his future home. He had secured from Mr. Miller in Dumfries, -the owner of the farm, the keys, and declining the company of several, -who offered to show him the way to his new possession, he set out on his -journey in gloomy solitude. For a few moments he listened to the birds -pouring their harmony on every hand, as if to welcome the wanderer, then -with a sigh he unlocked the door and went within. A few weeks passed -uneventfully. Upon his arrival he had immediately begun to rebuild -the dwelling house, which was inadequate to accommodate his family. It -afforded his jaded senses much pleasure to survey the grounds he was -about to cultivate, and in rearing a building that should give shelter -to his wife and children (who were with Squire Armour in Mauchline, the -stern old man having relented upon a bed of sickness), and, as he fondly -hoped, to his own gray hairs; sentiments of independence buoyed up his -mind; pictures of domestic content and peace rose in his imagination; and -a few weeks passed away, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which -he had experienced for some time. His fame naturally drew upon him the -attention of his neighbors in the district in which he lived, and he was -received at the table of the gentlemen of Nithdale with welcome, with -kindness and respect. It is to be lamented that at this critical period -of his life he was without the restraining influences of the society of -his wife, for a great change had taken place in his situation; his old -habits were broken, and he brooded in melancholy abstraction upon his -past glories in Edinburgh and his wrongs, while thoughts of Highland -Mary constantly filled his waking hours, and caused him to forget the -good resolutions he had formed, in his desire to drown recollections. -The social parties to which he was invited too often seduced him -from his rustic labor and his plain rustic food, and overthrew the -unsteady fabric of his resolutions, inflaming those propensities which -temperance might have weakened, and prudence finally suppressed. It was -not long, therefore, before Robert began to view his farm with dislike -and despondence, if not with disgust. Before his advent into Edinburgh -society, and during his sojourn there, he had refrained from the habitual -use of strong liquors. But in Dumfries the sins that so easily beset -him continually presented themselves, and though he clearly foresaw the -consequences of yielding to them, his appetite and sensations, which -could not prevent the dictates of his judgment, finally triumphed over -the power of his will. - -His great celebrity made him an object of interest and curiosity to -strangers, and few persons of cultivated minds passed through Dumfries -without attempting to see the poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his -conversation. As he could not receive them under his own humble roof -these interviews passed at the inns of the towns, and often terminated -in excesses, which Robert was seldom able to resist. Indeed, there were -never wanting persons to share his social pleasures, to lead or accompany -him to the tavern, to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit, or to -witness the strength and degradation of his genius. - -Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an office in the excise -as a certain means of livelihood, should his other expectations fail. He -had been recommended to the Board of Excise before leaving Mossgiel, -and had received the instructions necessary for such a situation. He -now applied to be employed regularly, and was immediately appointed -exciseman, or gauger, as it is vulgarly called, of the district in which -he lived. His farm was after this, in a great measure, abandoned to -servants, while he betook himself to the duties of his new appointment. -To be sure he could still be seen at intervals directing his plow, a -labor in which he excelled, but it was not at Ellisland that he was now -in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, our hero was pursuing the -defaulters of the revenue among the hills and vales of Nithdale, his -roving eye wandering over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward -fancies as he moved along. Though by nature of an athletic form, Robert -had in his constitution the peculiarities and delicacies that belong to -the temperament of genius. Endowed by nature with great sensibility of -nerves, he was in his corporeal, as well as in his mental system, liable -to inordinate impressions, to fever of the body, as well as of mind. -This predisposition to disease, which strict temperance in diet, regular -exercise, and sound sleep might have subdued, habits of a very different -nature, strengthened and inflamed. - -The following year Jean and her bairns came to live at Ellisland. He -received them with quiet affection, and Jean, who had grown strangely -humbled and passive, did her utmost to please him at all times, never -referring to the past, and tactfully avoiding all irritating subjects, -and by her soothing presence, her loving words of comfort and sympathy, -soon made her presence indispensable to her moody husband. Another year -passed by, a year of anxiety for Jean, who was compelled to witness her -husband’s lapses from sobriety, which now came so often, and to watch his -health decline slowly, but surely, in consequence. In the midst of all -his wanderings Robert met nothing in his domestic circle but gentleness -and forgiveness, except the gnawings of his own remorse. He acknowledged -his transgressions to his patient wife, promised amendment, and again -received pardon for his offenses. But as the strength of his body -decayed, his resolution became feebler, and habit acquired predominating -strength. - -All this time Robert had entertained hopes of promotion in the exercise, -but circumstances occurred which retarded their fulfillment, and which in -his own mind destroyed all expectation of their ever being fulfilled. His -steady friend, Mr. Mackenzie, interposed his good offices in his behalf, -however, and he was suffered to retain his situation, but given to -understand that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future -behavior. This circumstance made a deep impression on Robert. He fancied -that everyone held him in contemptuous pity, as a man of some genius who -had dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and who was slinking out the rest -of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the -lowest of mankind; and for days he would sit quietly on the banks of the -river plunged in the gloomiest meditation. - -About this time he received word of Lord Glencairn’s death. The news -plunged him into another fit of melancholy gloom, lessened somewhat, -however, by the assurance that his noble benefactor had died knowing the -truth, believing in Robert’s innocence, and asking his forgiveness. - -As his health declined his thoughts became more and more fixed upon Mary, -who was once more in Mossgiel at Colonel Montgomery’s. He yearned with -bitter longing to gaze upon her sweet face again, to hear her dear voice -speak his name. These thoughts he strove vainly to conquer, to banish -from his mind, for Jean’s patience and goodness, her loving forbearance, -filled him with shame at his own unworthiness. But she gave no sign -of the bitter heartache she endured. She accepted it all in patient -resignation, striving by uniform prudence and good management to relieve -his distress of mind regarding the material welfare of his little flock. - -Toward the end of spring he contracted a severe cold while in reckless -pursuit of an offender, in a driving rain storm, and, having caught the -guilty one, he celebrated the event at the inn, in company with some -congenial spirits, seated in his wet clothes, the result being an attack -of rheumatism, which laid him upon a bed of sickness for some weeks. His -salary was but a small one, hardly sufficient to keep his family from -want, and though hitherto his farm had yielded him a comfortable living, -for some months it had been left to run itself, with the inevitable -results. Planting time had come and gone, and still his ground lay all -untouched. His laborers had refused to work for him longer without pay, -and Souter Johnny, who was now making his home at Ellisland, could only -attend to the lighter chores about the farm. And now things began to -take a serious outlook for our hero and his family. Though sick and -discouraged, with want staring him in the face, he still sent glowing -reports of his continued prosperity to his loved ones in Mossgiel, -reports that filled their anxious hearts with false hopes and prayerful -thankfulness. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -One day during Robert’s early convalescence, Souter, after having -finished his chores, sauntered leisurely through the vegetable garden. -It was a peaceful nook, and there were household odors of mint, and -thyme, and boy’s love, which were pleasant to the soul of Souter Johnny, -and reminded him of stewed rabbit, which he dearly loved, with all its -attendant delicacies. He paced the path slowly, the light of the sinking -sun blazing gloriously upon the brilliant gown of his companion, who was -simpering along beside him, her little gray eyes looking down on him with -flattering interest as she listened with apparent delight to his tales -of daring adventure. Finally their conversation drifted to the sick man -within. - -“Poor bonnie laddie,” sighed Eppy dolefully. “To think of him being so -ill. We all loved him dearly in Edinburgh.” - -“He hasna’ been the same lad since he returned from there,” replied -Souter. “He had many great disappointments in his young life, I tell -ye,” and he shook his head dismally. “An’ noo everything has gone to the -dogs wi’ him, ever since he has been in Ellisland. ’Twas a sorry day -when he became an exciseman, say I.” He paused a moment reflectively, -then continued earnestly, “But no matter what anybody says different, he -has always done his duty faithfully, always on the tramp in all kinds -of weather, till at last his robust constitution has given out, an’ he -bowled over, so to speak.” He loyally refrained from mentioning that -Robert’s illness was partly due to his imprudent way of living. - -Eppy sighed again. “And he the Bard of Scotland,” she returned -commiseratingly. “How I pity him. Isn’t it sad Mr. MacDougall?” - -“Aye,” replied Souter, with a quick look from under his shaggy eyebrows. -“Ye hae a kind heart in ye, Miss McKay,” he observed after a pause. - -“Do you really think so?” she simpered. “I fear you are a base flatterer, -Mr. MacDougall. In Edinburgh there were so many who flattered me, who -sought for my favors, that I became wearied of it all, and longed for -a change. That is why I came here to Ayrshire and purchased the farm -adjoining, that I might rest during the summer.” - -“And then ye’ll be leaving us?” asked Souter with a deep sigh. - -“Perhaps not,” and she looked at him coquettishly. “Would anyone care if -I did return to town?” she insinuated slyly. - -“’Tis a wonder that such a bonnie lassie as ye should still be a maiden,” -he observed abruptly with a sly look out of the corner of his eye. - -“Oh, I have had many offers,” she answered airily, though her heart -fluttered with a newly-born hope. - -“Do ye ne’er get lonely, Miss McKay?” - -She sighed and cast down her eyes. “Yes, I do,” she declared plaintively, -“and I’m lonely now in that great big house with only a servant for -company.” - -“Souter Johnny,” said Souter to himself, “this is the chance of your -lifetime; go in and win a home.” Having arrived at this resolution, he -cleared his throat and pausing in his walk, faced the simpering old lady. -“Mum, ye see before ye,” he remarked, not without some nervousness, “a -single man, like yoursel’. Not from necessity, och nae; Souter Johnny, -before he lost his handsome looks, could hae had his pick o’ any o’ the -lassies, but I hae waited till noo——” he paused impressively. - -“Till now, Mr. MacDougall?” she repeated breathlessly, eager to have him -continue. - -“Weel, noo I hae found her,” he answered, “an’ she’s what I hae been -lookin’ for a’ my life.” - -“How romantic you are,” she cried soulfully, with an admiring look. - -“Aye, that I am, ’tis born in me,” he responded. “Do ye mind if I smoke, -mum?” he asked carelessly. He took out of his waistcoat pocket his old -black pipe and held it in his hand. - -“Oh, no,” she gushed. “I love to see you smoke, ’tis so manly.” - -Having lighted his pipe and got it drawing to his satisfaction, he turned -to her once more, and remarked casually, “Would ye call me too old to get -married? I’m askin’ your advice noo.” He looked at her quizzically. - -She shook her head vigorously in the negative. “Age does not matter at -all,” she observed sagely. “The question is do you feel peart?” and she -regarded him with anxious eyes. - -A grim smile played around Souter’s lips. Removing his pipe, he replied -with convincing firmness, “Never was sick in my life, strong and healthy. -Feel my muscle!” and he held out his doubled arm to the timid Eppy, -who shrank away bashfully. “It willna’ hurt ye,” he declared. Thus -encouraged, she gingerly touched it with one finger. “Fine, isn’t it?” -he asked proudly. Before she could answer he continued, “I have a fine -appetite, mum, an’ I dinna’ feel my age. Noo I ask ye, am I too ugly to -be looked at, mum? Dinna’ be afraid to tell me the truth.” He held up his -head, straightened his bent shoulders and stood awaiting her reply. - -She eyed him a moment in silence. “Well, Mr. MacDougall,” she said -doubtfully, after a pause, “I must confess you’re no beauty.” A look -of disappointment came over Souter’s face, seeing which she hastened -to reassure him. “But I care not for looks, Mr. MacDougall,” she cried -earnestly. “One could get used to you. I’ve heard it said that one can -get used to anything in time,” and she smiled sweetly into his downcast -face. - -He gave her a quick look. - -“Is it as bad as that?” he returned reflectively. “Weel, looks is all a -matter of taste. And noo let’s get down to business.” Eppy gave a start -and her hands fluttered about nervously, as she waited for his next -words. “Do ye think, mum, this sweet, lovely lassie I hae in my mind -would hae me for a husband?” he insinuated softly. - -She gave a little gasp. “This is so sudden,” she simpered, then broke off -abruptly—he hadn’t asked her yet. “Er—why don’t you ask the beautiful -lassie. She might think of it.” She coyly looked down upon him from under -her big bonnet. - -Souter threw down his pipe in his earnestness. “I will,” he ejaculated -quickly, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “’Tis your ain bright sel’ for -whom my heart is yearnin’. Will ye hae me, Eppy?” - -Eppy closed her eyes in blissful content. “My first proposal,” she -thought joyfully. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him fondly. “Oh, I don’t -want to make a mistake now,” she cried, half frightened, but she had no -intention of refusing him, however. - -“Dinna’ fear,” replied Souter eagerly. “I’ll attend to that; there’ll be -no mistake made, I’ll warrant ye.” - -“You’re such a masterful man,” she exclaimed, with an admiring look, -“and—well, there’s no gainsaying you. I must confess a real live man -about the house would be most comforting—to my sister, Sibella—and—and -me, so I—I’ll have you, Souter,” and she threw herself into his arms with -a cry of joy and thankfulness. - -“Thank ye, thank ye, mum,” said Souter gratefully. “I feel as if I had -won the prize ticket in a grand lottery.” He heaved a great sigh of -blissful content as he thought of the big house across the way. “There -noo, my pipe is out again,” he observed, after a little pause, and -he calmly turned his back and proceeded to relight it, leaving Eppy -regarding him with reproachful eyes and pouting lips. - -“Souter,” she finally faltered, “I—I thought you were more romantic. We -haven’t sealed our engagement by a—a——” - -“A—what?” asked Souter concernedly. “Is there something mair to do?” - -She sidled up to him, giggling bashfully, and after turning to see if -they were observed, she put her arm around his neck and said pensively: - - “Gin a body meet a body comin’ thro’ the rye, - Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry.” - -A comical look of comprehension dawned on Souter’s face. “O—oh! I see, -’tis a kiss ye mean,” he answered lightly. “Weel, noo, I’ll na’ stop -ye if ye want to kiss me. If you can stand it, I can,” and he held his -face up to hers, for she towered a foot above him. With a sudden dart, a -downward sweep of her head, she glued her lips to the little man’s, then -with a resounding smack she released him, with a sigh of absolute content -upon her homely face. “Weel, noo, that’s not half bad,” observed Souter, -smacking his lips reflectively. - -“Now, Souter,” declared Eppy decidedly, after they had walked a few paces -in quiet, “since you are a Highlander, you must wear the kilt, to please -me; and it must be the tartan of our clan.” - -Souter threw up his hands in amazed horror. “Oh, dearie, dinna’ ask me to -do that; I canna’ wear the kilt; I am na’ built that way,” and he looked -down at his legs with whimsical seriousness. - -“Then I’ll not marry you,” she declared with apparent firmness. - -Souter hurriedly explained in trembling fear. “I’ll tell ye the truth, -dearie: when I last wore the kilt the laddies laughed at my crooked legs -an’ called me a scarecrow, an’ I swore then I’d ne’er show my bare legs -to mortal man again. Would ye hae me expose my miserable defects, womman?” - -She stood off and let her eyes rove slowly down his nether extremities -with the air of a connoisseur. “I protest they do not look so badly,” she -observed encouragingly. - -[Illustration: “‘Keep on turning,’ she commanded.”] - -“Looks are deceivin’, lassie,” quickly replied Souter, who objected -seriously to kilts. “My legs are na’ my beauty point, for a’ that; they -are just twa wee bones, I tell ye, so be prepared for the worst,” and he -shook his head dolefully. - -“Oh, well, as Mr. Burns says, ‘A man’s a man, for a’ that!’” she replied -sweetly. Then after a moment’s reflection, she asked with tender -solicitude, “Are they so very wee, Souter?” - -“Aye, ye should see them,” he replied eagerly, hoping to convince her as -to his unfitness to wear the dress. - -Eppy held up her hands before her face in horror. “Whatever are you -saying, Souter?” - -“Weel, my legs are a maist sensitive subject wi’ me, my dear,” he -returned apologetically. - -“Turn around,” she commanded. He did so in wonder. “Keep on turning,” -she commanded. “I think, mayhap, they’re not so bad,” she observed after -a critical inspection. “However, after we are wed I can decide better -whether ye can wear the kilt or not.” - -Souter regarded her in meek astonishment, then he humbly rejoined, “Weel, -if ye can stand their looks, I’ll na’ complain, but it’s o’er chilly at -times,” and he shivered apprehensively. - -She laughed gayly. “Now, Souter, I must go home. Come over soon, you -masterful man!” - -“Aye, the first thing in the morning,” retorted Souter calmly, “an’ I’ll -bring the minister wi’ me.” - -“The minister! Why bring him?” asked Eppy in amazement. - -“To marry us, my dear,” replied Souter quietly. - -“You must be daft man!” she cried in sudden alarm. - -Souter shook his head. “Ye’d better take no chances,” he retorted calmly. -“I may change my mind,” and he carefully knocked the ashes out of his -pipe and put it in his pocket. - -“You impatient man!” fluttered Eppy. “I—I—come over and we’ll talk about -it. Good-by, laddie,” and she tripped daintily off down the path toward -the gate. - -Then Souter sat down on the seat under the big tree beside the house. -“Souter Johnny,” he said to himself, “ye’re a devil with the wimmen, -mon,” and a smile of self-satisfaction stole over his wrinkled face. - -“Souter Johnny!” panted Eppy, running back to him breathlessly, “I’ve -changed my mind.” - -Souter jumped to his feet in sudden terror. Had he lost her after all, or -rather, had he lost the home across the way? “W—what, do you mean?” he -stammered. - -“I mean—you—you—may bring the minister,” she gasped, and away she -fluttered down the walk before he could recover from his astonishment. - -“Hurrah! your fortune is made, Souter Johnny!” he cried aloud, when the -meaning of her words had dawned upon him, and he threw his bonnet high -in the air. “Ye’ll nae hae to cobble shoes any mair, noo, for ye’ll be -lord of the manor house, wi’ servants to wait on ye. Oh, the power of -money! ye’ll ride out in your fine carriage, Souter, and as ye drive by, -all the neighbors will be bowing and scraping to ye. I can see them noo. -’Twill be ‘Mr. MacDougall, will ye do us the honor to call at the castle; -her ladyship would be pleased to see you.’ Then I’ll say to them that -snubbed me when I was poor, ‘Weel, noo, ’tis very busy I am, attending -to my estates and other social duties. Tell her grace that Mr. and Mrs. -MacDougall will be pleased to have her visit us at MacDougall House, if -she cares to meet us.’” And he stalked along majestically to the house -with his head held proudly erect. “Noo, I’ll find the minister and make -sure of my bird.” Arriving at the door of the cottage, he stopped, and -addressing an imaginary butler, said pompously, “James, open the door, -your master wishes to enter! Thank ye! Noo take my hat! Noo ye may go!” -With a chuckle of delight he quietly opened the door and composing his -features into their natural expression, entered the cottage and made his -way to the kitchen, where he found a bowl of porridge awaiting him, which -he hungrily devoured. - -Meanwhile in the other room Robert lay tossing feverishly upon his bed. -Jean sat beside him smoothing his pillow from time to time, and soothing -his anguished mind with words of love and encouragement. - -“Blessings on your faithful head, Jean,” he murmured gratefully. “You’re -the best, truest wife that erring mortal man ever had.” She flushed with -pleasure at his words of praise. “Oh, this accursed rheumatism,” he -groaned. “How it shackles one, making one as much a prisoner as though a -ball and chain were attached to his ankle.” - -“But you are much better to-day,” said Jean brightly. - -“For a while only. I fear me this is my fatal illness,” he replied -despondently. - -“Don’t say that, Robert; you’ll be on your feet in a few days now,” and -she looked hopefully into his worn and haggard face. - -He pressed her hand gently. “I haven’t been the best of husbands, lass,” -he said after a pause. “I have sore tried your patience and your love -ofttimes, by my unfaithfulness, my unworthiness.” - -“I do not complain, Robert,” she answered quietly. - -“No, ye have never done that,” he said with a tender smile, “frequent -though my lapses in sobriety and propriety have been.” He paused -thoughtfully; presently he continued in mournful reflection, “But I was -punished for those sins afterward, for then came remorse, shame, regret, -the three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels.” - -“If it is God’s will——” began Jean, but he interrupted her. - -“Ah, no, Jean,” he replied bitterly. “’Tis not God’s will that I should -be here, racked with pain and tortured by the sins that come staring me -in the face, each one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. ’Tis -only the result of my own headstrong folly.” She wiped away the drops of -perspiration from his brow with tender fingers, while he lay panting from -the excitement that the recital of his sorrows had occasioned. - -“There, do not distress yourself with such bitter thoughts,” she told him -gently. “What is done, is done, and all our sins will be blotted out in -that other life.” - -“That other life,” he repeated dreamily. “Can it be possible that when I -resign this feverish being I shall find myself in conscious existence, -enjoying and enjoyed? Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently -wish it. If there is another life,” he continued with a flash of his -old whimsical brightness, “it must be for the just, the benevolent, the -amiable only, and the good. I’m sore afraid Rob Burns will na’ be able to -get even a peep through the Pearly Gates.” - -“Hush, dear,” replied Jean with tender reproach. “’Twill be open to all. -‘Let whosoever will, come and have eternal life,’ the Master said.” - -He mused a while on that sweet thought. “Ah, weel, just noo,” he returned -with a sigh, “this life is what we must face, and which I must cling to -as long as I can for the sake of my little flock. Poverty and misfortune -must be overcome, and at once. Our salvation now lies in my getting the -supervisorship and increased salary; then we need have no fear of the -future; we can laugh at fate.” - -“You sent your last poem, ‘Prettiest maid on Devon’s bank,’ to Mr. -Thompson, didn’t ye, laddie?” asked Jean anxiously. - -“Aye,” he replied, closing his eyes wearily. “And I implored him for -God’s sake to send me a few pounds to tide me over the present, till I -got my promotion. I am not asking a loan, ’tis a business transaction,” -he continued proudly, “and I ken he will send whatever he is able to -spare. He is a good friend, and it grieves me bitterly to be obliged -to ask help of him to keep us from starving. But,” and a note of -independence crept into his voice, “my song is worth whatever he sends.” - -“Hunger and want can humble the most independent spirit,” returned Jean -sadly. She rose and walked to the window and looked out into the twilight -with searching, anxious eyes. “Posty should bring us an answer to-night,” -she murmured. - -“An’ he will,” cried Robert hopefully, “for Thompson willna’ disappoint -me, for he kens I am in sore straits.” - -“Heaven bless him!” cried Jean fervently. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -The next day our hero was in better health and spirits, and insisted upon -being up and dressed. Jean, not without secret misgivings, got him into -his clothes and helped him to the rocking-chair, which she had drawn up -to the open window. For a while he sat there in silent content, bathed -in the warm, golden light of the morning sun, whose genial beams seemed -to infuse new vigor into his languid frame, while the gentle summer wind -blew upon him with its exhilarating, refreshing warmth. After Jean had -performed her household duties she returned to find him playing happily -with their two boys, telling them tale after tale, while they sat perched -on either arm of the big rocker, their eyes popping out of their round, -healthy faces with excited interest. He looked up as she entered and -smiled into her anxious face. - -“Do not tire yourself, Robert,” she cautioned him gently. “Come, lads, -run out doors and play a wee, your father is tired.” But they clung to -him affectionately. - -“One mair story,” they pleaded. - -“Tell us aboot Tam O’Shanter’s ride!” commanded Robert, Jr., gravely. -Jean sat down while he recited the stirring tale, and watched her -husband with eyes aglow with love and pity. How changed he was, she -thought with a sigh. What havoc had been wrought in that sturdy frame, -that fine constitution, in the once ringing tones of his musical voice. -Alas, all had flown, but with God’s help she would win him back to health -and strength once more, she told herself with resolute determination. -As he finished he kissed the earnest faces held up to his with such -worshipful affection, and with a serious “Thank ye, father,” they turned -and marched quietly out of the room and into the open air, and soon their -childish treble floated in through the open window, bringing a smile of -amused affection to the faces of their parents. - -“Now, Robert, ye must be tired out,” remarked Jean presently. “Will ye -not try and get a nappie?” - -“In a wee, Jean,” he answered, looking out of the window thoughtfully. - -“Then you must have a bittie of gruel now,” she said, rising and going -toward the door. - -“Nay, nay, Jean, I thank ye, but I canna’ eat nor drink nor sleep just at -present.” - -“Then try and take a nappie,” she insisted, smoothing the pillows and -sheets in anxious preparation. - -“A little later, Jean,” he replied a trifle impatiently. - -She sighed patiently. “Then I’ll leave ye for a while,” and she walked -toward the door. “Ye’re quite comfortable?” she asked. He nodded. Slowly -she closed the door upon him and applied herself to the task of getting -the midday meal. - -Presently, a knock on the door startled her, interrupting her meager -preparations. Hastily wiping her hands on her apron, she opened it, and -there on the threshold stood two richly dressed strangers. “From the -city,” she mentally said, noticing the elegance of their attire. - -Courteously raising his high conical blue silk hat, the younger man -addressed her. “Is not this Mistress Burns, whom I have the honor to -address?” he asked. - -“I am Mistress Burns,” replied Jean with dignity. - -“We have come to see your husband. Will you inform him, my dear madam, -that his friend Henry Mackenzie would be pleased to converse with him.” - -Jean opened wide the door, a look of pleasure on her face. “Please -to enter,” she said quietly. They did so. She showed them into the -living-room and bade them be seated. “Robert will be out directly,” she -said, and hastily went to tell Robert of their arrival. - -“So this is where Scotland’s Bard lives,” remarked Mr. Mackenzie, looking -about the room critically. “This cheerless hut, which bespeaks naught but -poverty. Poor Burns, I pity him.” - -“’Tis all his own fault,” testily replied his companion. - -“I am not so sure of that, Sir William,” said Mr. Mackenzie with a swift -look at him. “I have always believed and maintained that Burns was -innocent of that monstrous charge my Lady Glencairn brought against him, -even though you did confess to being an eye witness of the occurrence. -However, she has received her just deserts. She is at last totally -ostracized.” - -“Do ye mean to say——” sputtered Sir William. - -Mr. Mackenzie raised his hand in a stately gesture. “I really do not care -to discuss it, Sir William. But at last Edinburgh is beginning to realize -how cruelly they have misjudged him, and they would welcome him back -again, but I fear his pride and independence will prevent his accepting -any assistance whatever.” - -Sir William gave a snort of impatience. “I cannot waste my sympathy on -him,” he said angrily. “I am dispatched here to do my duty, and I must do -it,” and his mouth set in a straight, determined line. - -“’Tis a duty that for once is uncommon pleasant to you,” replied -Mackenzie sarcastically. There was silence for a moment, then he -continued, “I take it, the decision of the Board is final?” he asked. - -“Aye, ’tis irrevocable, sir,” replied Sir William gruffly. - -“And he must live on here as a poor exciseman,” murmured Mackenzie half -to himself. “Live! In sooth ’tis but an existence,” and he strode to -the window in sudden perturbation and gazed thoughtfully out upon the -untilled land. - -The door of the chamber opened and Robert entered the room, a smile of -pleasure lighting up his face. Mr. Mackenzie stepped eagerly forward and -clasped his hand and shook it warmly. - -“I am uncommon glad to see ye beneath my humble roof,” said Rob -earnestly, “and that ye havena’ forgotten poor, hopeless Robert Burns.” - -Mackenzie led him to a chair. “Indeed, I have not,” he replied brightly. -“Believe me, Mr. Burns, when I say that I prize your friendship above -that of all men I know.” - -Robert was about to reply, when he caught sight of Sir William Creech -watching them impatiently. He gave a great start and rose to his feet. - -“Sir William Creech!” he said slowly and bitterly. “To what do I owe this -visit?” - -“I come on a matter of business,” replied Sir William, a flush rising to -his cheek. - -“What business can ye have with me noo?” asked Robert with rising anger. -“Perjurer, have ye come to gloat over the man ye helped ruin by your -iniquitous falsehood? It isna’ good news ye bring, I warrant ye, else ye -would not be the bearer of it.” And he gave a scornful little laugh. - -“Insulting as ever, Robert Burns,” snarled Sir William, a red spot of -anger on each cheek, his eyes flashing wickedly. “Well, I’ll state my -business briefly. Ye wrote to the Board of Commissioners for the position -of supervisor in the excise. Your request has been voted on and was -refused.” He spat the words out with vindictive satisfaction. - -“Refused!” gasped Rob incredulously. He had felt so confident that the -position would be given him. He sat down weakly in his chair, dazed for -a moment. “But my name has been on the list of promotion for months,” he -told them dully. - -“’Twas scratched off some weeks ago.” - -“Scratched off? and why?” - -“Because of your Jacobite tendencies,” replied Sir William coldly. -“Many reports concerning your disloyal sentiments to your country have -reached the Board, which utterly ruined any chance ye might have had of -promotion.” - -Robert sat with bowed head, crushed by his disappointment. “Again must -I drink deeply of the cup of humiliation and disappointment!” he cried -bitterly. Presently he looked up at Mr. Mackenzie with a grim smile on -his trembling face. “I am at last persuaded, Mr. Mackenzie, that it -was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he foretold, ‘and behold, on -whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper.’” His head -dropped on his chest—his hands clenched the sides of the chair with -despairing intensity. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, his face set and -drawn, his eyes wild and flashing with bitter anger. “My curse on those -damned informers, who have blasted my hopes,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “May -the devil be let loose to torture them to madness.” Then he sank down in -his chair exhausted by his passion, his face pale and quivering. - -Mr. Mackenzie hastened to his side, fearful of the consequences of the -excitement on his frail constitution. Presently Robert spoke again, but -in a weak, broken voice. - -“My last hope is torn from me,” he said despairingly. “What shall I do -now? Ah, Mr. Mackenzie, I have felt all the sweetness of applause in my -short life, but I am now experiencing the bitterness of the after-taste.” -And the pitiful little smile, the pathetic catch in his voice, strangely -moved the heart of his listener. - -“Pardon my question, Mr. Burns,” said he, “but surely the excise allows -you a salary?” - -Rob laughed mirthlessly. “Aye,” he replied, “the munificent sum of thirty -pounds a year.” - -“Thirty pounds a year!” repeated Mackenzie incredulously. - -“Aye, only half of which I am getting now,” explained Robert bitterly. -“Ye see I am ill and off duty.” - -“And are there no royalties on your songs or published collection coming -to you?” - -“Ask Sir William,” retorted Robert bitterly. - -“There is no demand for your poems since you left Edinburgh,” replied Sir -William crustily. “The youth Walter Scott has taken your place in their -regard. He shows a remarkable talent for rhyming.” And a malicious smile -appeared on his crafty face as he noted the quick flush appear on the -expressive countenance of the sick man. - -His quivering features betrayed how deeply the barbed dart had entered -his heart. He turned to Mr. Mackenzie with a resigned little gesture. “Ye -see, sir,” he faltered with a pathetic smile, “how soon I am forgot.” He -paused, and the weak tears of sickness welled up into his eyes; then he -resumed with a shade of bitterness, “Scott is sure to succeed, for he is -of noble birth. He’ll not be patronized, at least.” - -Mr. Mackenzie had been thinking deeply, and now he turned to Robert with -a resolute air. “Mr. Burns,” he said earnestly, “with your consent, I -will go to the Board of Commissioners of Excise, of which the Duke of -Gordon is the chairman, and move them to grant you full salary. They are -well known to me and I am sure will not refuse my request.” - -A glad smile broke up Robert’s gloomy features. “Ye are a friend, -indeed!” he cried fervently. “God grant they do not refuse you, for if -they do, I must lay my account with an exit truly _en poète_, for if I -die not with disease, I must perish with hunger.” - -“Your interference will do no good here, Mr. Mackenzie,” hotly declared -Sir William, glaring at Robert hatefully. - -“I think it will,” returned Mr. Mackenzie coolly. “’Twould be Lord -Glencairn’s wishes were he alive, and his wishes will be respected by -the Board, mark well what I tell you,” and he flashed him a significant -look of defiance. Then turning to Robert, he shook him by the hand and -bade him adieu, saying that he must return at once to Edinburgh. “And -rest assured,” he concluded, “I will inform you at once of the decision -of the Board, which without doubt will be favorable. Cheer up, my man, -Scotland will not allow her ablest son to die of want and neglect, if -Henry Mackenzie can prevent it.” - -“Heaven bless ye!” responded Robert gratefully. - -“Mr. Burns, if you——” began Mr. Mackenzie, then he hesitated a moment, -but finally after a moment’s thought continued his sentence—“if you will -but accept a loan,” and his hand sought his pocket, but Robert shook his -head decidedly. - -“No, no, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said proudly; “I canna’ accept it, thank ye.” - -Mackenzie sighed. “Oh, you sensitive people,” he remarked, “pride and -poverty.” - -“Ye see,” explained Robert gratefully, “I expect a few pounds from the -sale of a poem, which will relieve my temporary embarrassment, and if -the commissioners grant me full salary, I can start for the seaside, -where I may regain my lost health.” He passed his hand wearily over his -brow, which began to pain him, for the excitement had worn him out. “But -I fear that has flown from me forever, that the voice of the Bard will -soon be heard among ye no mair.” - -“Nonsense!” replied Mackenzie brightly, putting his hand affectionately -on Robert’s shoulder. “You will live for years yet, but you must take -better care of this life which is so valuable to your family, to your -friends and to the world.” There was deep concern in his pleasant voice -and in his earnest eyes. - -At that moment the street door opened and Eppy appeared dressed -youthfully in white, leading by the hand none other than Souter Johnny, -who was looking decidedly crestfallen and sheepish, as he vainly tried -to pull down his little short kilt over his thin, bony legs, for Souter -was at last arrayed in full kilts, much to his evident sorrow. He looked -exceedingly grotesque, squeezed into the suit, which was too small even -for his undersized frame. - -“In the name of!—Souter Johnny, what means this?” gasped Robert in -amazement. - -“Canna’ a man wear the kilts without being laughed at?” answered Souter -ruefully, resenting the amused look on their faces. - -“Well, I must say ye look better in breeches,” observed Rob with a -quizzical glance at Souter’s grotesquely thin crooked legs. - -“He wears them for my sake,” explained Eppy with a soulful look at the -uncomfortable Souter; then she spied the visitors. “Why, Mr. Mackenzie, -it is good to see you here!” she exclaimed effusively, and she made him a -deep courtesy, purposely ignoring Sir William. - -“Daft as ever,” grunted Sir William audibly. - -She regarded him with a haughty look of disdain. “Daft!” she repeated. -“Huh! you cannot insult me now with impunity!” she exclaimed in triumph. -Turning to Souter, she called him to her side with a commanding gesture. - -“Noo, ye see, Robert, what has become of my breeches,” whispered Souter -in Robert’s ear as he passed him. “She is wearing them,” and he winked -his eye significantly. - -As he approached her, she reached out a long arm and drew him to her so -suddenly that it took him off his feet. Finally he righted himself and -stood close beside her, his little gray head, with the bonnet perched -saucily on one side of it, scarcely reaching to her shoulder. - -“Friends,” she announced proudly, “this gentleman is my—my husband,” and -she noticed with pleasure the look of consternation which appeared on all -their faces. - -“What!” cried Robert aghast. - -“You’re married!” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie incredulously. - -“Poor man,” sneered Sir William mockingly. - -Eppy tittered gleefully. “Yes, I was married to-day, and ’tis heavenly,” -and she rolled her eyes in an ecstasy of joy. - -“Well, ’twas the best you could do, I suppose,” observed Sir William -maliciously. - -“I wouldn’t take you as a gift,” she flashed. “And you tried hard enough -to win me, dear knows,” she went on with total disregard for the truth. -“He was forever running after me,” she explained deprecatingly to Souter. - -“You—you—you are not speaking the truth,” sputtered Sir William -furiously. “If I was running it was to get away from you.” - -“Oh, of course you won’t admit it now,” she observed calmly. “But I am -rejoicing that I didn’t marry you.” She looked Souter over critically. -“Well, Souter may not be very handsome,” she remarked thoughtfully after -a pause, “but he is a perfect picture in kilts,” and she gave a sigh of -absolute content. - -“Women are queer creatures,” whispered Souter to Robert deprecatingly, -“and my—my wife, ahem! weel, she’s the queerest of them a’.” - -“Well, my friends,” laughed Mr. Mackenzie, “I protest this time I must be -off. Good-by, lad.” - -“May blessings attend your steps and affliction know ye not,” answered -Robert fervently. “Ye might take Sir William along, for he looks maist -uncomfortable amongst honest people!” he added dryly. - -Mackenzie laughed grimly and passed out, leaving Sir William to follow. - -“Ye insulting pauper!” fumed Sir William, starting angrily for the door. - -“Ye can go back to your Edinburgh friends,” cried Robert with flashing -eyes, “an’ tell them that e’en though ye found me almost on the verge of -despair, with oblivion hovering dark over my still independent head, that -I yet live in the hope of seeing the prophecy I made to them all that -night fulfilled, and that Sir William Creech, my worst traducer, will be -the first one to again court my favor.” - -“I’ll hear no more such insulting language!” roared Sir William -threateningly. - -“Ye’ll not hear it t’other side of the door,” replied Robert quietly. - -“Aye, but ye’ll get your fairin’ one of these days,” exclaimed Souter -belligerently. “An’ ’twill be in hell, where they’ll roast ye like a -herrin’,” he added grimly, much to Eppy’s horror. - -“Open the door for me, fellow!” shouted Sir William wrathfully. - -“Open it yoursel’,” replied Souter, “an’ I promise ye I’ll shut it behind -your coattails mighty quick.” - -“Out of my way, idiot,” and with a shove he brushed the little man aside -and swiftly joined his waiting companion outside the gate. - -“Did ye see that?” gasped Souter, his eyes flashing fire. “Did ye see -that? Let me get after him,” and he started for the door, with blood -in his eyes, but Eppy with a little shriek of alarm grabbed him by the -plaidie and held on to him with all her strength, which was not slight. - -“Don’t, dearie, don’t, you might get hurt!” she cried tearfully. - -“Weel, if ye say not, why I’ll let him gae,” returned Souter submissively. - -“Come, Robert,” said Jean gently, “you must lie down for a wee bit now.” - -“By the way, Rob,” laughed Souter reminiscently, “do ye mind the day——” -He stopped short as Jean shook her head disapprovingly. - -“He’s had a most exciting morning,” she exclaimed gently, “and needs rest -now. He’ll be feeling more peart to-morrow,” and she held out her hand in -dismissal. - -“Ye mean get out, eh, Mistress?” said Souter good-naturedly. “Weel, weel, -Souter Johnny can take a hint.” - -“Come, Souter,” called Eppy from the open doorway, where she had been -impatiently waiting for her bridegroom, “come with me to your—your new -home,” and she bashfully held her fan over her face with a nervous little -giggle. - -“Aye, that I will,” replied Souter, with alacrity. He turned to Robert -with a new air of dignity which set comically upon his little figure. -“If we can do anything for ye, Robert, dinna’ forget to send over to -MacDougall House. Dinna’ forget my address. Mrs. MacDougall, my arm.” She -grabbed it quickly and they walked to the door. “God-day all,” he called -over his shoulder, and with a feeling of great contentment, that at last -his troubles were over, and that he was entering upon a new life of ease -and plenty, he closed the door behind them, and trotted along beside his -wife, grinning like a schoolboy, across the fields to their new home. - -“Has the Posty come yet?” inquired Robert, after they had gone. - -“Yes, but he brought no letter for ye,” answered Jean sadly. - -The words of one of the verses of his “Ode to a Mouse,” came to him with -gloomy presentiment. - - “But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, - In proving foresight may be vain; - The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men - Gang aft agley; - An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain - For promised joy; - Still thou are blest compared wi’ me! - The present only touchest thee; - But och! I backward cast my e’e, - On prospects drear’; - An forward, tho’ I canna’ see, - I guess and fear.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -Later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at -full speed toward the little house on the hillside. They were determined, -resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. Finally they -reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder -man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible -annoyance. - -“There is no need for secrecy, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and -he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with -pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse. Jean, who was busily engaged in -sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her -father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted -surprise, mixed with anxiety. - -“Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it -bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?” - -“Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly. “They are all well, Rob, and have -sent their love to yourself and family.” - -“Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully. There was a little -embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke again. - -“Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and -troubled. - -“Trouble!” echoed Rob blankly. “What is wrong, brother?” - -“I cannot hold Mossgiel any longer,” he replied, dejectedly. “The farm is -but a wretched lease, as ye know, an’ I canna’ weather out the remaining -year. Without assistance, Robert, I canna’ hope to hold our little family -together any longer.” - -Robert’s heart sank within him as he heard the direful news. He glanced -at Squire Armour apprehensively. “And Squire Armour?” he interrogated -with an angry glance at that gentleman, who stood with a sneering smile -on his harsh face, taking in the evidences of poverty that surrounded -them. And with never a word of love or pity, nor of greeting to his -daughter who sat there with white face and longing eyes, waiting to hear -some news from her stern, implacable father, of her loving mother at home. - -“I have bought the lease of Mossgiel,” he growled, “an’ if your brother -canna’ pay up the back rent, which is long past due, I shall seize -everything and turn the whole lot of them out, every one.” - -Robert looked at him a moment in scornful silence. Presently he spoke, -and the cutting sarcasm of his voice caused the old Squire to wince and -drop his eyes. - -“Ye are a most just, square, God-fearin’ man, Squire Armour,” he said. -“The Kirk should be proud of ye.” Turning to Gilbert, he asked him the -amount of his debt. - -“Only a matter of £4, brother,” he replied, “but ’tis a fortune to me at -present.” - -“An’ I must have the money to-day or the farm, I care not which.” - -“Oh, father!” cried Jean, going to him, “do not be hard on him; he will -pay you; only give him time.” - -“Jean!” flashed Robert angrily, “dinna’ stoop to ask mercy of that mon, -even though he be your own father.” Jean turned away with a sigh. - -Squire Armour laughed derisively. “Ye’ll both be on your knees before -long, I’ll warrant,” he cried harshly, “asking favors of me, especially -when ye have naught to feed a starving family. Ye have made yoursel’ a -fine, comfortable bed, my lassie, havena’ ye?” He sneered sarcastically, -turning to his shrinking daughter. “But ’tis made, and ye can lie on it, -ye ungrateful minx.” - -Robert rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flashing dangerously. - -“Stop! Squire Armour!” he commanded. “Dinna’ dare to use such language -to my wife in my own house, or weak, sick, and crippled as I am, I will -throw ye into the road like the cur that ye are.” He stopped, breathless -with indignation. Presently he resumed with immeasurable scorn in his -vibrating voice, “An’ they call such men as ye Christians! A sneaking, -crawling, psalm-singing, canting hypocrite! Faugh! Were I the Lord, I -would sicken at sight of ye.” He turned away and sat down beside his now -weeping wife, and there was pity and compassion in the look he bestowed -upon her. - -“I’ve had enough of your blasphemy, Robert Burns. If ye canna’ pay the -rent for your brother, my business is elsewhere.” - -“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured -Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for -God’s sake do it, or I shudder to think what will become of the dear ones -at home.” - -Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own -little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of -his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring -him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at -Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the -supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his -poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully. - -“I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious, -downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns, -an’ noo I’ll go.” - -He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he -called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.” - -“Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm -face. - -Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could -he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked -herself apprehensively. - -“Robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.” - -“My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert -without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “He -will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the -door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery and -trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time -will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have -caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’ -ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.” -He drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen -eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his -listeners with awe and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of -grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and -love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but ye’ll cry in vain, an’ -ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable -selfish life.” - -As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous -fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the -words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped in a -frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance: - -“How dare ye! How dare ye say such things to me, Robert Burns? I willna’ -die like that and ye canna’ frighten me with your grim forebodings.” He -paused and glanced at them all in turn, then hastily opened the door. -Just as he was stepping out, he turned slowly and looked at the white, -patient face of his daughter. For a moment he regarded her in silence, -then with a visible effort he addressed her. - -“Jean,” he said, and his voice was noticeably softer, “ye are welcome to -come back to your home.” He cast a quick look at the lowering face of his -son-in-law and added vindictively—“alone.” - -“Nay, never alone, father,” replied Jean sadly, looking at her husband’s -frowning face. - -The old man turned with sudden fury upon them. “I’ll wait till sundown -for my money,” he shouted, “but not a minute longer!” and he closed the -door behind him with a vicious slam. - -Gilbert was first to break the depressing silence that ensued. He felt -vaguely that all was not so well with his brother as he had been led to -believe. - -“Forgive me, brother,” he murmured contritely, “for bringing this trouble -on ye.” - -“Never mind, Gilbert; it was to be, I ken,” answered Rob absently. - -Gilbert was silent a moment. “But the money, Robert, is it—are ye——” he -stammered, then stopped in embarrassed confusion. - -“’Tis the sum I expect from the sale of a poem. Jean, see if there is -aught of the Posty.” She rose and went to the window and peered anxiously -down the dusty road. - -“I didna’ have the ready money with me,” went on Robert lightly, as if it -were a matter of small importance, “or I would have fixed it up at once. -But ye shall hae the money, laddie, when my letter comes,” and he smiled -reassuringly into Gilbert’s anxious face. - -“God bless ye, Robert; ye have taken a great load off my heart.” - -Jean returned to her seat by the hearth, and listlessly took up her -needlework. “I fear Posty has forgotten us to-day,” she said in answer to -Robert’s questioning look. - -[Illustration: “‘I’ll wait till sundown for my money,’ he shouted.”] - -A great fear seized his heart. For nearly a week he had hopefully awaited -some word from Thompson. What could be the matter? “O God!” he prayed -silently, “let him not fail me noo.” With a bright smile that sadly -belied his anxious heart, he rose and, taking Gilbert’s arm, said gayly, -“Come, brother, and see the new bairn that has been added to the flock -this last year.” - -As they left the room Jean dropped her work in her lap and gazed after -them with eyes filled with helpless tears of anxiety, at the thought of -the hardships and suffering that lay in wait for them all. - -After admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of -the dear ones in Mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought in the -lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently -been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their -younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. For a time -they forgot their own troubles, and Robert plied his brother with many -questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors, -while Gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity -of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the -others, thus leading up to the recital of their own troubles since Robert -had left his home. He listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and -unceasing toil which brought such little recompense, but not by word -or look did he betray his own blighted hopes and gloomy prospects. -Finally they had exhausted every subject save one, and that one had been -uppermost in the minds of both, but each had avoided the subject with a -shrinking dread. - -No news of the little dairymaid had come to Robert for almost a year, -and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred -conjectures racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled -on his lips. Gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart, -for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning face gazing at him so -beseechingly, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted -one knee over the other. Presently he spoke. - -“Mary is still at Colonel Montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to -speak lightly. - -“I heard she had left Mrs. Dunlop’s,” replied Robert feverishly, -moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. - -“Aye,” sighed Gilbert. “She grew tired o’ the city and longed for the -stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back -to us and took her old place in the dairy. Poor lass,” and he looked -thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset -tinting the distant hills in a blaze of golden light. - -“An’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured Robert in a soft, hushed -voice. Gilbert did not answer for a moment. Presently he roused himself -and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s -wistful face. - -“Can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly. - -Robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. He -gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his -understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he -whispered hoarsely, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?” - -He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer. - -“Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh -of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. -The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep -back the rising tears. - -Slowly, sorrowfully, Robert’s head drooped till it rested on his bosom. -For a moment he sat like one on the verge of dissolution. - -“Oh, God!” he moaned bitterly, “that sweet young life crushed out in -all its innocent purity, like a delicate flower, and through my sin, my -reckless folly. Oh, how can I live and bear my punishment!” A convulsive -sob racked his weakened frame. Gilbert bent over him with tears in his -eyes, forgetting his own crushing sorrow in witnessing that of his -brother. - -“Dinna’ greet so, Robert,” he cried. “’Twas not your fault, ye ken. It -was to be.” His philosophical belief in fate helped him over many a hard -and stony path, and enabled him to meet with calmness and fortitude the -many heartaches and disappointments which befell him. - -Soon the convulsive shudders ceased, and leaning wearily back in his -chair, Robert fixed his great mournful eyes upon his brother in sorrowful -resignation. - -“How did she look when ye last saw her, Gilbert?” he asked faintly, -pressing his hand tightly to his heart, for the old pain had come back -with exhausting results. - -“Like an angel, lad,” replied Gilbert tenderly. “So sweet and pure, so -patient and forgiving.” - -“Does she suffer much?” - -“Nay,” he answered reassuringly. Then he continued, his voice soft and -low, his strong features quivering from the restraint he put upon his -feelings, “Her life is just slowly slipping away from her; day by day -she grows weaker and weaker, but ne’er a complaint is on her lips. She -is always so cheerful an’ smilin’ that it fair makes ye weep to see her -fadin’ awa’ so fast,” and his voice broke into a hard sob. - -“Oh, Mary, my Highland Mary!” murmured Robert brokenly. - -“Her last wish is to see the Highlands, to—to die there,” continued -Gilbert, his lips contracting with a sudden, sharp pain at the thought. -“So before she grows any weaker, Mrs. Dunlop, who has come from town to -see her, and who is wi’ her noo, is goin’ to take her back to her old -home in Argyleshire.” - -“Going home to die!” repeated Robert dreamily. “Oh, if I might be taken -awa’ too, if my end would only hasten,” he muttered despairingly, with -the weak selfishness of the sick and sorrowing. “Then might our departing -souls be united as one, to be together for all eternity.” - -“Hush, Robert!” cautioned Gilbert, looking fearfully at the closed door. -“Remember Jean and the bairns.” - -“Gilbert, I must see her before she goes!” he cried utterly distracted. -“’Tis for the last time on earth, ye ken, lad,” and he jumped up, -trembling with eager excitement. - -“Brother, would ye kill yoursel’?” cried Gilbert, seeking to restrain -him. “’Tis madness for ye to go out in your weak condition.” - -“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and -rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation. -“Jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his -old-time vehemence. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked -questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and -Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she -went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was -not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long ago, and -laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and -listen to them. - -“They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him -tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire -without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while -Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping -to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes -died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he -allowed himself to be taken back to his room. - -“Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic -eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have -come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day -we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none -heard him. - -“Noo, Robert,” said Jean brightly, “you must take your gruel, ’twill give -ye strength.” But he made a gesture of repulsion. - -“Nay, Jean, I canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. I think I’ll lay me down -to rest.” They soon prepared him for bed. Without a word, he turned his -face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide, -staring, sleepless eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -News of Robert’s illness soon reached Edinburgh, along with reports of -his misconduct, profligacy, and intemperance, reports which were grossly -exaggerated, together with many other slanderous falsehoods. - -And rumors of his poverty and the destitute condition of his family -brought sorrow and anxiety to the hearts of many of his loyal friends, -who were only too ready and willing to offer him all the help and -assistance that would be needed, but they knew, too, his inflexible -pride and independence, and realized how futile would be their offers of -friendly assistance. - -For some days Lady Nancy Gordon had been anxiously puzzling her brain -for some thought or scheme whereby she could help the unfortunate Bard -who was plunged in such depths of poverty and misfortune. She was -thinking of him now as she sat at the harpsichord, her fingers wandering -idly over the keyboard in a running accompaniment to her thoughts. Her -father softly entered the room at this juncture, but she did not turn -her head nor intimate that she was aware of his presence. Presently -her touch grew more and more tender. Anon she glided into one of those -dreamily joyous, yet sorrowful, mazurkas, that remind one of gay wild -flowers growing in rich profusion over silent and forgotten graves. Lady -Nancy had reason to boast of herself, for she was a perfect mistress -of the instrument—and as her fingers closed on the final chord, she -wheeled round abruptly on the chair, and rising to her feet greeted her -father with a tender smile. For a moment she regarded him in thoughtful -silence, then as he laid down his paper, she walked up to him, a frown of -displeasure wrinkling her smooth, white forehead. - -“I think, father,” she said deliberately, with a haughty uptilt of her -pretty nose, “I think it is perfectly disgraceful the way that hackney -scribbler who writes for yon journal,” indicating the paper on the table, -“either through malice or ignorance affixes such degrading epithets to -the name of the Bard of Scotland, for by no other name will I ever speak -of Robert Burns,” and she flashed an angry glance at the offending paper. - -“Poor obstinate lad,” sighed the Duke thoughtfully. His mind went back -to the day after the garden party at Glencairn Hall, when he had sent -for Robert to honor them with his presence at Gordon House, and how the -poet had taken offense at some thoughtless remark of his, given in kindly -spirit; how with haughty pride, and wounded dignity, he had gotten up -from the table and after thanking them for their hospitality, declared -he had not come to be insultingly patronized and pitied, and refusing to -listen to reason, or explanation, he had left in bitter resentment and -blind misunderstanding. Lady Nancy too was thinking the same thoughts, -and after a moment’s meditation she looked into her father’s kindly face -and remarked earnestly: - -“Father, something must be done for him and his family at once.” - -“But, my dear,” he meekly replied, “our hands are tied by his own -obstinacy.” - -“Can we not get up a subscription for him?” she asked. He shook his head -slowly. - -“’Twould be to no purpose, Nancy,” he returned thoughtfully. “He -would refuse all offers of pecuniary aid. I know well his independent -principles, and so do you.” - -They talked over many plans and projects, but none seemed feasible, -and they were about to give up in despair, when Henry Mackenzie was -announced. He had just arrived from Ellisland, and immediately spoke of -his visit to the poet, and under what painful conditions he had found -him—told them of his promise to Burns to secure the office of supervisor -for him, and had called to consult with his lordship concerning its -bestowal. - -Nancy listened with bated breath and tear-dimmed eyes as he spoke of the -change in Robert, his poverty, his indomitable courage and independence, -in spite of the ravages of disease and the black, gloomy outlook for -future prosperity. - -“Nancy and I were just discussing some means of alleviating his distress -as you entered,” said the Duke as Mr. Mackenzie finished his recital. -“And it affords me much gratification to be able to assist him to the -office of supervisor of the excise and its attendant increase of salary.” - -“’Twill be a God-send to him, believe me, my lord,” returned Mr. -Mackenzie feelingly. - -“The news will be dispatched to him at once!” cried Nancy with sparkling -eyes. “’Twill relieve his present distress of mind.” - -With that assurance, Mr. Mackenzie rose, and thanking them for their -kindness in behalf of the indigent poet, took his leave. - -Having finished luncheon, the old Duke excused himself, and going to his -study, he made out the necessary papers of promotion for the struggling -exciseman, with many a shake of his head and pitying sigh for the young -genius who was reduced to such straits—driven to such a commonplace -calling, through his headstrong recklessness, his foolish ideas of -independence. Having signed them he sat back in thoughtful meditation. -Suddenly the door opened, and his daughter asked permission to enter. -Having gained it, she crossed to her father, and sinking down beside him, -in an eager, impetuous manner quickly laid before him a project which -had been formulating in her active brain while he was busy writing out -the papers. - -He started back in amazement. “What!” he cried. “Are you out of your -senses, Nancy?” - -“Now, papa, listen!” she exclaimed earnestly. “’Twill take but a day’s -ride to reach Dumfries, and think how delighted he will be to receive the -promotion from your hands,” and she slyly noted the effect of the bit of -delicate flattery. - -He frowned and pursed his lips for a moment, and idly tapped the folded -papers against his knee in thought. These signs boded success, as Nancy -well knew, and springing to her feet she gave him a big hug that set him -gasping. - -“Look here, Mistress Nancy!” he exclaimed as soon as he recovered his -breath, “why do you want to take this wearisome journey at this season -of the year, just to visit the home of this poor exciseman?” and he -wonderingly regarded the face that had suddenly grown flushed and -pensive, as she looked with worshipful eyes at the large engraving over -the fireplace, which contained the figure of Burns in a characteristic -attitude, reading one of his poems to the group of people that surrounded -him. - -“I want to see him once more before the fire of his genius grows cold,” -she answered dreamily. “I want to see him in his home with his—his -wife and children around him.” She might have told him that she was -heart-hungry for a sight of that dark, glowing face, the flashing black -eyes that had thrilled her with such blissful pain, for the sound of -that rich, majestic voice, that had so often stirred the uttermost -depths of her heart. She felt that the yearning of her soul would not be -satisfied till she had seen him again, spoken with him. She hoped, yet -dreaded, that the sight of his changed face, his miserable surroundings, -the commonplaceness of it all, of meeting the exciseman with his wife -and children around him, rather than the idealized poet, would silence -forever the strange unrest of her soul, banish all thoughts of sentiment -from her mind, and destroy the spell of glamour which he had all -unconsciously thrown about her. These thoughts flew through her mind -with lightning speed while her father was making up his mind how best to -dissuade her from her purpose. - -“I fear me, Nancy, ’twill give us both more pain than pleasure,” he said -finally. “We may even lose our respect for him.” - -“Don’t say that, father!” she cried reproachfully. “No matter how low he -may have fallen, and I protest that fame has exaggerated his misconduct -woefully, we people of Scotland cannot forget nor overlook the priceless -treasure he has put into our thankless hands, a treasure that will be -handed down to posterity with ever increasing regard, admiration and -love for its author,” and her flashing blue eyes, that had so often -reminded Robert of Mary Campbell, and which had formed a closer tie of -comradeship between them, again sought and lingered upon the engraved -likeness of her hero. The singular beauty of Lady Nancy Gordon was -illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the -union of cultivated tastes and superior understanding with the finest -affections of mind, and the influence of such attractions had been keenly -felt by the ardent poet, who was not altogether unaware of the impression -he had made upon her heart, which was as susceptible to the charms of -wit and intellect as was his own. As she stood gazing up at the picture, -she thought with an odd little smile how she had openly sought for his -favors, delighted in his apparent preference for her society even while -she told herself she knew he was only attracted by her brilliancy—that -she appealed to his intellect—charmed him by her wit, her cleverness. No, -she had never touched his heart, she thought with a sigh, and a look of -sadness came into her thoughtful eyes. - -“I fear, Nancy, that Robert still harbors feelings of resentment against -us,” protested the Duke after a pause. “I know he would rather not see -us.” - -But Lady Nancy overruled his objection. “Then all the more reason for -our assuring him of our friendship and asking his forgiveness for any -offense we have unintentionally offered him.” - -Seeing all arguments were useless, the old Duke finally consented, and -with a hug and a kiss, Nancy left him and proceeded to make arrangements -for their speedy departure for Ayrshire. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -The next morning dawned bleak and dismal. A damp, penetrating mist hung -over the farm like a pall, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated -into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest -fires. It affected the inmates of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent. -They sat gloomily around the hearth idly watching the smoldering peat -fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the -depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had -plunged them all into such a slough of despond. - -Robert had partaken of his bowl of porridge and now lay upon his bed, -grateful for the added warmth of the woolen blankets which Jean had -thrown over him with thoughtful solicitude. He appeared to the anxious -watchers to be more like himself than he had been for some days, in spite -of his restless, sleepless nights, as he lay there peacefully enjoying -the antics of the children who were playing gleefully but quietly around -the room their favorite game of “Blind man’s holiday.” - -At sundown the night before Gilbert had hastened to the Inn to meet -Squire Armour and to plead for another day’s grace, but the implacable -old man refused to listen to him when he found he had failed to bring -the money, and stormily took his departure with threats of instant -eviction, leaving Gilbert in a state of utter distraction. He watched the -Squire ride furiously away in the direction of Mossgiel with a heavy, -sinking fear at his heart, then slowly made his way, with pale face and -clenched hands, back to his brother’s cottage, where he wrestled with the -fears that assailed him in despairing silence. Several times during the -night he was on the verge of saddling his horse and dashing home, but -the hope that the morning would bring the long-expected letter to Robert -checked the impulse, and so he sat the long night through anxiously -waiting for the dawn, praying fervently that he might not be too late to -save his dear ones from the vindictive anger, the unyielding resolution -of their irate landlord. - -And now morning was here at last. Robert had fallen into a profound -slumber of nervous exhaustion. Jean tucked him in carefully with the warm -blankets, and taking the children with her, quietly closed the door upon -the sleeping man with a prayer of thankfulness for his temporary respite -from the troubles that surged about his head. - -When her duties were over and the children playing on the green, Jean -took her sewing and joined Gilbert in the living room. He was walking -restlessly up and down, with nervous, flashing eyes that eagerly -searched the road, as he passed and repassed the small window. His -restless pacing, his look of hopeful anxiety smote Jean to the heart, -for she had been bitterly resentful, and was still in a measure, against -Gilbert’s selfishness in thinking only of his own extremity. It didn’t -seem right or just that he should be here with outstretched hands, -waiting to take the money that meant so much to their own struggling -family at the present time, and without which she could only foresee grim -want staring them all in the face—and she had to struggle with the desire -that rushed over her to rise up and tell him of their bitter plight, to -bid him go elsewhere for assistance; but the fear of Robert’s anger kept -her silent. Then, too, she suddenly remembered that they had both kept -their poverty and Robert’s continued ill luck and failures from the home -folk, and it was only to be expected that Gilbert would naturally turn -to his prosperous brother for assistance. “Prosperous, indeed! If he but -knew,” and she sighed deeply, for her mother’s heart felt sore depressed -as she thought of her own loved ones. They did not talk much. Each was -too busy with his own gloomy thoughts. - -In fancy, Gilbert could see Squire Armour at Mossgiel Farm, ordering -out his mother and sister, watching them with sinister eyes as they got -together their meager belongings, and then when they, with streaming -eyes, had carried out the last piece of furniture and stood gazing at -the home that was no longer theirs, the cruel landlord had heartlessly -laughed at their sorrow and, locking the door, had ridden away with the -keys in his pocket, leaving them standing there not knowing whither to go -nor where to find food or shelter. - -“O God! Not that! Not that!” he cried aloud, pausing in his walk with -clenched hands, pale and wild-eyed. - -Jean looked up from her work in startled alarm. “Gilbert!” she cried. -“What is it?” - -With a little mirthless laugh, he told her of the vision he had had, told -of his fears for the safety of his home and the welfare of his loved ones. - -She listened with a feeling of shame at her heart and a flush of angry -humiliation mantling her pale cheek. - -“’Fore Heaven, it makes me feel like cursing even the memory of -my father,” she exclaimed bitterly with a flash of her old-time -imperiousness. “But be not alarmed, Gilbert,” she continued with an -encouraging smile. “Your mother is a match even for my father, and I’ll -warrant she’ll not let him set his foot inside the threshold till you -return.” His face brightened. - -“I had indeed forgot my mother’s independent, courageous spirit,” he -replied with a sigh of relief and hopefulness. - -The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted into a friendly, -earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the -looked-for interruption of the overdue postman. - -Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the -noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered -on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the -window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating -and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of -wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a -subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in -upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on -their way to the door of the cottage. - -The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night -before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland -and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the -whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was -boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than -our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his -authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a -masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them -to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin -and the evidences of poverty and neglect which surrounded them on all -sides, their hearts sank within them. - -“I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy -interrogatively with a little shudder of dread. - -“Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken. -Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’, -askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been -very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. -“But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows drew together in -a black scowl, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye -people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na -drunkard. I hae known him from infancy, and I affirm that he has never -been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could -always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion -into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his -assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he -knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told -himself philosophically. “And what people don’t know about the food they -eat, will no hurt their appetites.” - -“I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly. - -“An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate husband,” continued -Souter stoutly. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode -into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their -astonishment. - -“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius -to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.” - -There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father -noticed with sudden apprehension. He looked at her closely. - -“Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained -discreetly silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t -blame nor censure him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom -again. It is, indeed, a lasting pity that such genius should be allowed -to smother here in poverty and among questionable companions, who, ’tis -said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas! are but -too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a -remorseful, repentant victim.” - -“And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked -Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the -Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that -moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly. - -“Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently. - -A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs -you to enter and to be seated,” he replied. - -They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room, -where they seated themselves. - -“I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye -as soon as he can get into his damned rags.” - -“What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly. - -“Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady -Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the -language o’ a Scottish poet.” - -“Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully. - -“Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.” - -The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his -wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held -it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the -bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked with gray and which -had thinned considerably above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck, -framing his gaunt face, and accentuating his pallor. - -For a moment they gazed upon the wreck of the once stalwart and ruggedly -healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break -the silence. - -“My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am -rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but -none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with -fervor. - -“The pleasure is mutual, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few -years now since we parted, and in anger, too.” - -“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently, with a -rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned -afterward, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye -held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly, “’twas my unreasoning -wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all -sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and -that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He -paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he -looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic -smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude, an’ are come noo to -see me! I thank ye.” - -“’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke -cordially. “I could not hold resentment against you.” He turned to his -daughter, who was partly concealed in the embrasure of the deep window. - -“Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came slowly forward with hand -outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the -reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet -cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders. - -Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with -pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him. -Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the -resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn -with its waving, black plumes, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the -once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had -remembered the likeness and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to -use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times. -As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to -perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery, -had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three -years before. - -“Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he -exclaimed fervently. - -“I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed -impulsively. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn -man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face. - -“You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had -discoursed a while upon their journey. She remained silent, but he read -the sympathy shining in her blue eyes. - -“We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me, -Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor of -your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him -a cheery smile of encouragement. - -Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me -forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the -house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.” - -“Why didn’t you let us know of your illness before?” exclaimed Lady Nancy -reproachfully. “We are your friends.” - -Robert flushed painfully. “My miserable health was brought on and -aggravated solely by my headstrong, thoughtless carelessness, and I felt -so heartily ashamed of myself that I sought to conceal from all friends -my real condition, but ’tis out at last. How long I will be confined to -the house, God alone knows,” and he sighed deeply. - -“Do not give yourself up to despondency, my lad,” encouraged the Duke -brightly, “nor speak the language of despair. You must get well.” - -“Indeed I must!” returned Robert grimly, “for I have three strong, -healthy boys and if I am nipt off at the command of fate—gracious God! -what would become of my little flock?” and a look of distraction swept -over his face at the thought. - -“Don’t distress yourself needlessly, Robert!” exclaimed the Duke kindly. -Then he continued earnestly, “If anything should happen to you, if you -should be taken off before I am called, I promise that the children of -Robert Burns shall never come to want.” - -“’Twould be a lasting disgrace to Scotland,” flashed Lady Nancy with -kindling eyes. - -Robert grasped the Duke’s hand impulsively. “God bless ye for your noble -assurance!” he cried. “Ye have lifted a heavy weight of care and anxiety -off my mind.” - -“Why, father!” suddenly exclaimed Lady Nancy, “I vow if you are not -forgetting your principal errand here.” He looked at her with a puzzled -frown. “Mr. Burns’ promotion,” she reminded him laughingly. - -“Gad zooks!” he exclaimed in amazement, jumping to his feet. “What an -old dolt I am, to be sure.” Hastily diving his hand in the inside pocket -of his elaborate, black-flowered satin square-cut, he pulled out a long -paper with a red seal attached and handed it to the now bewildered -Robert, who, after a quick glance at their smiling faces, opened the -paper and quickly read its contents. Then he gave a gasp, followed by an -ejaculation of delighted surprise and gratification. - -“My lord,” he exclaimed, “this is indeed a gift to bring gladness to -a man’s heart. I thank ye most gratefully for my promotion, and will -endeavor to perform my duties to the best of my poor abilities as soon -as my strength returns.” And the look of anxiety gave way to one of -comparative contentment. - -“And your immediate recovery is of the first importance,” returned the -Duke brightly. “You need a change.” - -“Why not come to town, where you can have the best of medical -attendance?” asked Lady Nancy quietly, though her heart beat furiously as -she offered the suggestion. - -“That is impossible,” replied Robert. “The medical folk tell me that my -last and only chance is bathing and sea air and riding. With my promotion -and the increase of salary it brings, I can now obey their mandates,” and -he held the paper to his breast with a sigh of relief. - -“Then the sooner you start, the better,” remarked the Duke kindly. - -Lady Nancy rose to her feet with a wan smile on her lips. “And the sooner -we start for Dumfries, father, the better,” she returned. - -“You’re right, child, we must hasten,” and he hastily arose and got his -hat and cane together, then he turned once more to Robert. “Mr. Burns, -pardon the suggestion, but is it not time to get out another volume of -your poems?” he asked kindly. - -“I have not in my present state of mind much appetite for exertion in -writing,” answered Robert slowly. - -“But they could be arranged for you by some literary friend,” quickly -returned the Duke, “and advertised to be published by subscription.” - -Robert raised his head proudly. “Subscription!” he repeated. “No, no, -that savors too much of charity,” and a look of obstinacy came into his -darkened eyes. - -“Remember,” said Lady Nancy gently, “that Pope published his Iliad by -subscription, Mr. Burns.” - -He remained silent a moment, then after a little struggle with his -obstinate pride, he answered with a touch of bitterness in his voice, “I -realize that I am in no position to despise any means to add to my income -or to leave my family better provided for after I am gone. I will take -your advice and will at once speak to my dear friend Aiken about it. He -will aid me.” - -The door opened and Jean entered the room. She had heard all the good -news, and having met both the Duke and Lady Nancy while sojourning at -Glencairn Castle a few years before, she felt she ought to thank them for -their good offices in Robert’s behalf. - -Lady Nancy and the Duke greeted her warmly, asked after the health of -the children, expressed pleasure in seeing her again, and soon put her -at her ease, for the sudden thought of her hasty marriage to Robert -and the attendant slanderous gossip at first made her feel and appear -self-conscious and restrained. - -“I was just telling Robert,” said the old Duke, “that he must go at once -to the seashore.” She looked at her husband, and her wistful expression -did not escape the keen eyes of Lady Nancy. - -“If he only could go at once,” faltered Jean, “I am sure the water would -effect a cure, but——” - -Nancy gave her father a significant look, which clearly said, “They have -no money, father.” At least, so he interpreted it, aided by his own -shrewd guess at the state of affairs. - -“By the way, Robert,” he said jocularly, “can you swallow your pride -sufficiently to accept a month’s salary in advance?” He pulled out a -large, well-filled wallet and opened it. - -“We do not need it, my lord,” answered Robert firmly and a trifle coldly. -“I am expecting——” Here Jean hurriedly interrupted him, knowing what he -was about to say. - -“Oh, Robert!” she cried contritely, “I forget to tell you that the Posty -left no letter.” - -“No letter!” he repeated dully, looking at her with wide-open, searching -eyes. She sadly shook her head. - -“Here are £5, lad. Take the note and to-morrow set out for Brow,” and the -Duke held out the note for his acceptance, but he sat with averted gaze -in the proud silence of keen disappointment. - -“Do not refuse, Robert,” pleaded Jean softly. “’Tis only a loan.” - -Slowly he took the money and folded it between his fingers. “Thank ye, my -lord,” he said quietly. “I will accept it, for I am in sore need of it at -this moment.” - -“That’s right, my lad,” he said heartily. “What is a friend for if he -cannot extend or receive a favor?” and he turned to help his daughter -into her cloak. - -Quickly Robert pressed the money into Jean’s hand and whispered to her, -“Take it at once to Gilbert and bid him hasten to Mossgiel before it is -too late to save the roof over mother’s head.” - -“But, Robert——” she protested, but he would not listen to her. - -“Do ye not see ’tis near sundown of the second day?” he told her -impatiently, “and Gilbert will have to ride fast if he would get to -Mossgiel before night overtakes him; noo hasten, Jean.” Still she -lingered, reluctant to go. - -“Oh, lad, this money is for you; it means your health, our happiness. It -isn’t right to——” - -“We have got a roof over our head, Jean,” he interrupted sternly. “We -maist keep one over my mother and sister as weel. We will nae starve. -There are only £4 due your father. Keep out one for our present needs. -Noo go, lass, go.” - -Thus commanded, she hurried to the chamber where Gilbert sat in -despairing solitude, his head held wearily between his hands, and -conveyed to him the glad intelligence. And soon he was speeding furiously -over the dusty road toward home, his face aglow with joy and eagerness. - -When Jean returned to the room she found Souter and Eppy there gayly -chatting with the Duke and Lady Nancy, who were evidently much surprised -to find their old friend Eppy at last married. - -“I am so glad to see you here, Lady Nancy,” gushed Eppy effusively. -“You must come and see us before you return to Edinburgh. I live on the -estate adjoining this farm.” He drew the smiling girl to the window -and pointed out the beauties of MacDougall House. “He is poor,” she -whispered, “but he is of noble birth, a MacDougall of Lorne. Souter!” she -called aloud to her husband, who was looking exceedingly important as he -stood balancing himself on his toes, his hands behind his back, a look -of supreme self-satisfaction on his face, and listening, with an air of -blasé indifference, to the conversation between the old Duke and Robert. -As he heard his name called he leisurely turned his head in his wife’s -direction. - -“Souter,” she continued in a tone meant to be careless, but which -expressed plainly her feeling of pride, “isn’t it the Marquis of Lorne -who is your first cousin?” - -“What’s that, Souter?” asked Robert incredulously. - -Souter looked around him with a sickly smile. He had not thought to be -cornered in this manner, when he had filled his wife’s mind with stories -of past grandeur and noble connections, and it made him feel decidedly -uncomfortable and embarrassed. - -“Er—didna’ ye ken that, Robbie?” he exclaimed with a look of feigned -surprise on his reddened face. “Och, yes! By the by, Robbie,” he -continued quickly, anxious to change the subject, “we came o’er to tell -ye that we are gang to Brow on our honeymoon.” Here Eppy giggled and -looked bashfully out of the window. “An’ my wife, Mrs. MacDougall,” with -a flourish of the hand in her direction, which elicited another giggle -from the lady in question, “has decided that we want ye to gang alang wi’ -us.” - -Robert looked at him, then at Eppy in speechless surprise. Jean gave a -little gasp, and her hand sought her husband’s arm and pressed it with -delight. - -“Souter,” faltered Robert, “ye’re both doing this out of the kindness of -your hearts, but I canna——” - -“We’ll na take no for an answer. Ye may be stubborn wi’ your lofty -independence, your pride, but I can be just as stubborn as ye, Rab Burns, -and I say it is settled,” said Souter. - -“’Tis the hand of God,” whispered Jean softly. - -“God bless ye both,” faltered Robert, grasping Souter’s hand -affectionately. - -“Come, father,” said Lady Nancy, who had witnessed this little scene with -moist eyes, “I protest we must start on our journey.” - -“But first we must have a toast,” said Robert brightly. “’Tis most -fitting. Jean, bring the punch bowl.” Quickly she brought from the closet -the bowl of Inverary marble and placed it on the table, and into it she -poured some hot water and sugar. “We have no wine to offer,” continued -Robert, “nothing better than Highland whisky, but ye needna’ be afraid of -becoming intoxicated, my lord,” and he smiled ruefully, “for I ken ’twill -hardly be tolerable to your educated taste.” Jean had mixed the punch and -now passed it around among the guests. “For auld lang syne!” cried Robert -feelingly. “Is not that phrase most expressive? My lord, a toast,” and -he raised his glass to the old Duke, who, after a moment’s hesitation, -proposed “the health of Robert Burns, Scotland’s greatest Bard.” - -“We drink to that with pleasure,” exclaimed Lady Nancy. - -“Aye, that we do,” echoed Souter heartily. And while the toast was -being drunk he slyly whispered, “Rob, dinna’ say aught to my wife -about—er—the old Marquis, my—ahem—cousin. Ye understand,” and he nudged -him significantly. - -Robert smiled and assured him of his secrecy. - -“And noo,” said Souter proudly, looking at Eppy’s simpering face, -“here’s to the bride.” She made a deep courtesy and quaffed her glass -with conscious dignity at her sudden importance. “May she always believe -in her husband,” he added in an aside to Robert, much to the latter’s -amusement. - -“Mrs. MacDougall, here’s to your enemies, your foes,” proposed Robert. - -“What?” she cried, opening her eyes in amazement. - -“May they have short shoes an’ corny toes,” he added with a merry twinkle -in his eyes. - -“Duke, a toast!” said Souter importantly. - -The Duke thought a moment. “Well, I drink to Mrs. MacDougall. May she -soon have a house full of bairns,” he thoughtlessly proposed. - -Eppy gasped and turned crimson, and Lady Nancy bit her lips to keep back -the smile her father’s well-meant but tactless speech occasioned. - -“Do you mean to insult me, my lord?” flashed Eppy indignantly. - -“Bless my soul, no,” returned the Duke in astonishment, who could see no -reason for offense in his kindly-meant remark. - -“The Duke meant well,” said Souter pacifically to his wife, whose eyes -were flashing angrily. “An’—an’—stranger things might happen, ye ken,” -and he rubbed his chin reflectively with a sly look out of the corner of -his roguish eye at Robert. She tossed her head haughtily. - -“’Twould not be so monstrous strange, Mr. MacDougall, as you seem to -think,” she retorted frigidly. Souter opened his eyes in speechless -surprise. He was about to speak, but after one bewildered glance at the -disdainful face of his bride, concluded that discretion was the better -part of valor, and for the rest of that day he remained in thoughtful -silence reflecting on the inconsistencies of woman kind in particular, -and speculating upon the strange and mysterious workings of human nature -in general. - -The Duke bade them all adieu and passed out into the garden, where its -wild beauties attracted his eye. He wandered about, forgetting, in his -admiration for the flowers, his daughter, who had lingered behind for one -last farewell word—alone. - -“And so, Mr. Burns,” she said thoughtfully, looking after Jean’s -retreating figure, “you have never regretted taking the step that bound -your life to that of Jean Armour’s? Regretted doing your duty?” There was -a note of regret in the vibrating voice. - -“Never, my lady,” he replied firmly. “It was the only really good thing -I have ever done in my wretched life.” - -She looked at him a moment with hungry eyes. “Do you never think of the -old days in town?” she asked suddenly, and she was greatly surprised to -see his face turn pale, his eyes flash and deepen. - -“For God’s sake, madam, do not mention the past!” he said, turning away. -“All that has passed out of my life forever,” he murmured after a pause, -“never to return.” - -“And you wish it so?” she asked faintly. He bowed his head slowly. She -moistened her lips feverishly and drew near to him, her eyes filled -with a light that would have startled him had he seen it. “Say not so! -Must I give up the friendship of the only man I esteem and hold dear?” -she panted breathlessly. “Oh, will you not renew the broken thread of -our correspondence [he had written her several times since coming to -Ellisland, but before Jean’s advent] and enjoy the sweet intercourse -of thought, which will bring such gladness into my own life, and will -brighten the gloom of your own, and will take naught from your wife’s -peace of mind?” - -He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me -that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter -that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to -expose them to the pillory of derision and the rocks of criticism?” And -a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes. - -“I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed, -preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are -cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.” - -He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the -sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to -Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face. - -“Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity. I have -a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to -sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief -with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I -have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living -ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay, ’tis too late -noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out -his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.” - -She took his hand and looked into his set, unmoved face, and a sigh of -utter disappointment, of patient longing, involuntarily escaped her -trembling lips. “If it must be, then farewell,” she answered slowly, a -slight tremor in her soft voice. She walked to the door, then turned and -fixing her eyes on him, she continued mournfully, “Do not quite forget -me, will you, Robert? Let the scenes of nature remind you of Nancy. In -winter remember the dark shades of her life, for there are plenty; in -summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to -bestow plenty on all, and let spring animate you with hopes that your -absent friend may yet surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to -taste a springtime of happiness.” - -He bowed his head gravely. “I shall remember ye, Lady Nancy—friend,” he -returned feelingly. - -She gave him one long, lingering look. “Farewell, farewell!” she gasped, -and when he raised his head she was gone. - -He sighed and walked thoughtfully to the window. “The past and all its -pleasures will soon be but a dim memory,” he muttered grimly, “as one -by one the connecting links which bound me to it are severed forever.” -He paused and watched her as she joined her father in the garden, and -a quizzical look flashed across his face. “Faith!” he muttered with a -little smile, “who would believe the time would come when lovely women -would plead in vain for the favors o’ Rob Burns. Och! Robbie, ye are -indeed fit only for the grave,” and he turned away from the window in -earthly meditation. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -The next few days Jean was very busy with her preparations for their -sojourn at the seaside. The date of their departure was already fixed and -it now lacked but a few days before they would bid farewell to Ellisland -forever, for Robert had decided to take up his residence in Dumfries when -his visit was ended, for the duties of his new office would necessitate -his being there the quarter part of his time. - -As the day of their departure drew near, Robert grew more and more -depressed, and day by day he sat in melancholy silence beside the window -gazing with unseeing eyes upon the tangled yet graceful wilderness of -flowers. Jean watched him in growing fear and anxiety as he sank deeper -and deeper into those protracted fits of gloom and depression, and -vainly sought to find some reason for the sudden change. He had been so -elated at getting his promotion and at the many advantageous changes -it would make in their condition—had dwelt with affectionate wonder on -Eppy’s kindness in extending to them the invitation to accompany them to -Brow, and had seemed to greatly improve in health and spirits for a few -days. Then came Gilbert’s letter stating that he had arrived in time to -prevent the eviction of the dear ones at home. The letter had plunged him -into a state of feverish excitement and restless anxiety, and all day he -would sit at the open window, watching with burning eyes the long narrow -road that twisted and turned on its way to Mossgiel, straining his eyes -eagerly at the approach of any casual traveler who might be passing, -then with a look of patient despair, sink back in his chair, pale and -listless, his unfocused eyes again gazing into space. One night after he -had left his chair and had retired to his bed for the night, looking more -haggard than usual, Jean spied on the floor a crumpled paper which had -evidently dropped from his nerveless hand. Picking it up, she smoothed -it out and found it to be Gilbert’s letter, which she had not seen, as -Robert had read it to her and then put it carefully aside. Slowly her -gaze wandered over it. Suddenly she gave a great start, for at the bottom -of the page this sentence caught her eye: “Mary leaves to-morrow for the -Highlands and will pass through Ellisland.” Thoughtfully she put the -letter on the chair where he could find it in the morning, and sat down -by the cradle of the bairn and gently rocked him till his fretful crying -ceased; then she gave herself up to the heart-burning thoughts that -filled her mind. She had tried so hard to be patient all these years, she -had struggled and struggled to do her duty without a word of complaint, -she thought, while bitter tears of patient grief and secret yearning -for the love that she knew belonged to another rolled down her sorrowing -cheek. She had no word of complaint to make against Robert though, for -he had never sought to deceive her once, and there was no feeling of -resentment in her heart against the little dairymaid. It was not the -child’s fault. It was not the fault of either that they still loved each -other. Only Robert might have shown her the letter, she thought with -quivering lips; there was no need to keep it from her. She would know it -when Mary came to the house, anyway. She might have guessed the reason -for his sudden change, she thought, wiping away her tears, only her mind -had been so filled with the household preparations for moving that Mary -had been quite forgotten. For a while she gently rocked the sleeping -child, watching its sweet, flushed face, listening to its soft breathing, -and soon all disturbing thoughts slipped away from her troubled mind, -and a peaceful, holy calm entered her patient heart and shone through -her love-lit eyes. Covering its little form carefully, she carried the -cradle into her chamber and placed it within reach of her bed. Then as -she disrobed for the night in dreary silence, her eyes fixed on the pale -face of her husband, who was tossing and muttering in his sleep, a tender -wave of pity swept over her at the thought of the sweet lass who would -shortly pass out of their lives forever, leaving only a sweet, haunting -memory behind to remind them of her pathetic young life. Quickly she -slipped into bed beside her restless husband, upon whose feverish cheek -she pressed a tender kiss, and closing her tired eyes, fancied she -slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of love for her husband -and children, in which all bright hopes and vague longings reached their -utmost fulfillment, and yet were in some strange way crossed with shadows -of sorrow and grief, which she had no power to disperse. - -On the following morning the heat was intense. No breath of air stirred -a ripple on the sluggishly-flowing Nith, and there was a heaviness in -the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. -Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Scotland, and, according -to Souter Johnny, betokened some change. The sun was dazzling, yet there -was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. -A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of -the distant mountains which lay beyond Mossgiel, for there was no wind -stirring, and Robert, seated in his chair by the window, found himself -too warm with his thick plaid wrapped closely around him, and throwing -it back he let the sunshine bathe him in its golden glow and play on the -uncovered ebony of his hair. He no longer watched the road with such -eager intensity. Rarely this morning had his gaze wandered beyond the -bush beneath the window, with its one snowy-white rose, the last rose -of summer, nestling among the faded, worm-eaten leaves, looking so -pure, so fragrant, so delicately white against the background of rusty, -dead-looking foliage. It had blossomed in the night, and in the morning -when he had approached the lattice from force of habit, although he had -given up all hope of seeing Mary before she left Ayrshire, he had spied -it in all its delicate beauty. Each morning for six days now he had gone -to that window, expecting before the day drew to its close to see the -beloved form of his Mary approach, only to go to his bed at night in -bitter disappointment. Gilbert’s letter stated she would start that day, -and now the sixth day had come and yet there was no sign of her. He had -told himself he would not watch the road this morning; there was no use, -she had gone; she had not wanted to see him; she felt too bitter against -him—it was only natural she should. These bitter thoughts had filled -his mind with misery and wretchedness as he drew near the open window. -Suddenly his eyes had rested on the spot of white nestling on the top of -the bush. With a strange thrill at his heart, he had knelt down beside -the latticed window, and folding his arms on the sill, gazed at the -message from heaven, sent to bring peace and hope to his aching heart, so -he fondly believed, while bright tears filled his eyes and brimmed over, -falling warmly on his folded hands. - -“Oh, Mary, my love, my love!” he whispered brokenly. “Come to me before -ye die.” And all that morning he had watched it expand and stretch -out its petals to its utmost, wafting its perfume up into his grateful -nostrils, till a peace such as had not visited his heart for many years, -smoothed out the lines of suffering from his brow and softened the hard -light in his deepened eyes. A verse of a poem he had written a few years -before flashed across his memory: - - “Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, - To see the rose and woodbine twine; - And like a bird sang o’ its luve, - And fondly sae did I o’ mine; - Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, - Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; - But my fausse luver stole my rose, - But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.” - -Jean, coming into the room a little later, found him there, his head -resting on his hands, a smile of contented calm upon his face, which -now seemed like the face of the youth she had known in Mauchline, and -the sight thrilled her strangely and brought a spasm of pain to her -overcharged heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -That morning, when Robert first caught sight of the rose, he had -experienced a sort of mental obsession in which his brain was mastered -by the thought—an absurd idea perhaps, and one which his reason and his -will both might easily have repelled, only he clung fondly to the belief, -letting it fasten itself upon his mind and grow and grow—that Mary had -passed away in the night, and that her spirit had found a temporary -resting place in the heart of the white rose that had blossomed forth -so unexpectedly, so unseasonably. He had watched the nodding flower on -its long, slender stem of green, waving gracefully in the light breeze -that had sprung up, and in his state of dreaming consciousness fancied -he could see the wistful face of Highland Mary peeping out from among -the snowy petals. As the feeling grew upon him that she had come to -him in spirit, a great content settled down and around him, a mighty -calm that seemed to still the troubled waters of his soul, and all the -bitter discontent, the yearnings of his heart, the cravings, the unrest, -faded away like a mist dissolved by the warm splendor of the sun. For a -while he had sat there in blissful peace, a smile of ineffable rapture -on his face, gazing with rapt adoring eyes at the dancing rose, which -seductively blew nearer and nearer to him with each gust of the swiftly -rising wind, then as he would lovingly stretch out his hand to touch -it, to caress it, away it would go, eluding him like a dancing sunbeam, -to the farthest side of the bush, bending its saucy head lower and -lower till it was lost to sight for an instant, then up it would bound, -gayly nodding, and then for a moment would pause in its restless elfin -dance, quivering on its stem as though tired with its sportive play, its -coquetry. The sky had grown gradually darker, and little waves disturbed -the smooth surface of the greenish gray grass that swayed and undulated -in running billows, as the wind rose. But the kneeling man was all -unconscious of the gloom that had settled over the landscape, shutting -out the glorious sunshine, stilling the song of the birds, and bringing -in its train a damp chill that presaged a storm. The wind tossed the -curls madly about the face of the poet, but still he did not move; only -as the chill air struck through his thin shirt, he mechanically pulled -his plaid about his shoulders, and dreamed on happily, of the old days, -when the heart was young, before sorrow had embittered his life, dreamed -of a life of love with Mary by his side, dreamed and dreamed far into -the morning, and so Jean had found him and left him to his slumbers. -Suddenly his eyes opened, but he did not move. He sat there feeling a -little cramped and stiff, until hazy recollections dawned slowly upon his -mind, then he raised himself from his crouching position, and leaning -out of the window gazed with eyes that were wonderfully luminous at the -blossom which was just beyond his eager reach. He inhaled deep breaths -of its fragrant perfume, a smile of loving tenderness on his lips. All -at once a feeling of sudden depression tightened around his heart as he -noticed for the first time the deepening gloom without, felt the lowering -temperature of the atmosphere, which chilled and depressed him so -strangely. He looked again at the swiftly dancing flower, and his heart -stopped beating for an instant, while a look of pain, of heart-breaking -sorrow, darkened his face—the white petals were dropping one by one, and -were being whirled and tossed madly through the air like flakes of snow. -He watched in silence, as the wind, with reckless abandon, tore them out -and scattered them here and there, some sailing merrily out of sight—one -dashing through the open window and against the white, agonized face of -the suffering man, clinging to it for a moment, in a sweet caress, a last -embrace, then slipping down—down, till it found rest on the floor, where -soon it was dead and forgotten. As the last snowy petal left its stem, -leaving it looking so bare and pitiful nestling in among the leaves as -though ashamed of its nakedness, a hard sob of anguish escaped his lips, -for it seemed as if each petal contained a part of the soul of his loved -one, and leaning his face against the sash, he gave himself up to the -crushing sorrow that submerged his soul and plunged him once more into -black despair. It seemed as if the last link that had bound her to earth, -and to him, was at last broken and she had passed on out of his life -forever; not even the rose was left to preserve as a sacred memory to -look at occasionally, to bring her presence nearer. And now no more such -roses would bloom for him, not in this life anyway, and so he drearily -mused in hopeless sorrow. - -All at once a vague feeling of uneasiness stole over him, a curious -feeling that he was not alone; and yet he did not look around, for -somehow it seemed that it was the spirit of his Mary still hovering in -the air, seeking to comfort his grieving heart; and yet the strange -feeling of her nearness was different from that emotion he had -experienced when he in fancy had looked at her wistful face in the heart -of the nodding rose. And suddenly he held his breath as the consciousness -of her physical presence grew stronger and stronger upon him; his -startled eyes fixed themselves upon the naked stem, swaying gently on the -bush—he strained his ears to hear—he knew not what—he could not tell—a -trembling seized his limbs—and when he heard a sweet, low voice call -“Robert,” not from the slender stalk, but somewhere behind him, he gave -no start of surprise. He told himself it—it—was only imagination—the -great longing within him had—but there it was again—it could not be -fancy—it—it must be—he turned slowly in the direction of the voice as if -afraid to find naught but the empty room to mock him, for he had heard no -sound to indicate a presence within the room. As his eyes grew accustomed -to the gloom and his dulled vision cleared, he saw just inside the door, -standing with hands outstretched to him—a flesh and blood reality, but -oh! so pitifully changed. He gave a gasping cry and sprang to clasp the -swaying form close to his throbbing breast. - -Ah! the rapture of that meeting, the blissful joy which filled his aching -heart and crowded out stern recollections from his memory, while all -thoughts of the grim present, its bitter facts which faced him, the vain -regrets, all—all were now forgotten. The lines of pain in his haggard -face were smoothed out gently and deep peace settled upon their troubled -souls. - -“Ah, Mary!” he breathed softly, breaking the sacred stillness. “Ye have -come at last. Oh, it has been so long, dearie, so long, and I have -wanted ye so much,” and he held her to his heart in a strong, jealous, -passionate embrace, as if he could never part with her again on earth, -but would shield her from even the shadow of death, that he saw stamped -on her pale, pinched features, and which glowed in the haunting depths of -her tired blue eyes. A smile of sadness passed quickly over her face like -the sun that peeps through the sudden rift of a cloud. - -“Ye knew, laddie, I couldna’ go awa’ without seeing ye just once mair,” -she whispered tenderly. A fit of coughing suddenly racked her slender -frame. He led her weak and trembling to a chair and gently wiped away the -beads of perspiration from her forehead, and for a moment she leaned up -against him in utter exhaustion. Presently she smiled up in his anxious -face and faintly thanked him. “Dinna’ be alarmed, dearie,” she faltered. -“I’m aright noo,” and she bravely straightened up in her seat, but he -would not release her altogether. - -And so they sat, sad and silent, knowing the parting, the sad, final -parting would come in a few quickly-fleeing moments. - -Outside the clouds had been gathering thickly over the sky, and now and -then a few shafts of sunlight still forced a passage through them with -steady persistency, although storm hovered over all, waiting the signal -to burst forth. Suddenly a silver glare of lightning sprang out from -beneath the black-winged cloud hanging low in the horizon, and a few -large drops of rain began to fall. Mary nestled closer to him as she saw -the brilliant flash, and shivered apprehensively. They both were thinking -of that other storm, when he had bidden farewell to Ayrshire in poverty -and despair, to take his place in Edinburgh among the high and mighty, -to claim the reward of genius—honor, fame and renown. And now the time -had come for her to say farewell, only there was a difference, and such -a difference! She was bidding good-by to life, to love, to everything. A -happy smile broke over her wistful face as she thought of her reward; it -would not be such a fleeting thing as riches, honor and fame. Thank God, -it was more than those; it was an eternity of happiness. No more sorrow, -no more suffering, only peace, divine peace, such as the world knoweth -not, such as she had never known in her short, eventful life. - -“And so, Mary,” murmured Robert brokenly, “the end of our life’s romance -has come at last.” - -She put her little hand in his and pressed it warmly. - -“Yes, ’tis the end, Robin Adair. The end of all, but it had to come some -time; we were but wearing our hearts out in vain longings, in bitter -regrets, ye ken that, dear.” She paused and idly watched the rain, which -was now coming down fiercely. “It will be better for—for us—all when I am -gone,” she murmured presently, with a far-away look in her eyes. - -A sob of anguish caused her to turn quickly to the sorrowing man by -her side. Putting her hand on his head, she continued in pathetic -resignation, “I will be spared much pain and sorrow, ye ken, so dinna -greet for me, laddie. I—I am content, nay glad to go, for I—I am so -tired—so very tired of this—long, unhappy struggle.” Her voice trembled -and the tears rolled slowly down her sad cheeks. - -“If I, too, could only end it all,” he moaned. - -“Sh! laddie!” she answered in gentle reproach. “Ye mustna’ wish for -death; ye have those dependent on ye, whom ye maun think of noo, Jean and -the bairns.” Her voice grew very sweet and caressing. “I saw them as I -came in. Oh, they are such bonnie little lads, dearie. So like ye, too. -Gilbert is o’er fond of them; he is playing wi’ them noo.” - -Mrs. Dunlop had been taken ill at the last moment and had commissioned -Gilbert to take her place. She had supplied him plentifully with money -for the journey and had then sorrowfully taken her departure for -Edinburgh, her kind old heart sad and heavy. - -“Robbie lad,” continued Mary earnestly, “ye—ye maun take Jean close to -your heart. Ye maun love her fondly for the bairns’ sake and—for her own, -too, for she is a good, kind wife to ye, and ye’ll all—be very happy yet, -I ken weel.” - -He slipped down from his chair to his knees and buried his tear-stained -face in her lap. “When ye go, Mary,” he murmured brokenly, “I’ll never -know peace and happiness again.” She let him weep on in silence. -Presently he raised his head and looked at her. “Ye dinna’ ken, lassie, -how I have hungered for a sight of your dear face—a word from your sweet -lips, this last year.” He clung to her passionately. “An’ noo in a few -minutes,” he continued in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever -and I maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.” - -“Nay, nay!” she cried reproachfully. “Dinna’ say that, laddie, not alone, -not alone,” and she looked compassionately at the door of the kitchen -where Jean sat in patient misery holding her bairn to her aching heart. -At that moment Gilbert softly opened the door and told them that they -would have to start at once, that the storm would not let up and that -they must catch the boat at Greenock that night. - -“Ye had better say good-by, noo,” and he closed the door quietly behind -him. - -They looked at each other, too dazed for words. Then she started to rise -to her feet, but he clasped her hands tightly, though she did not feel -the pain, and pressed her into the seat again. - -“Not yet, not yet, Mary!” he gasped. “I canna’ let ye go just yet. ’Tis -like tearing my heart out by its roots.” - -“Ye mustna’ greet so, laddie,” said Mary, frightened by the vehemence of -his sorrow. - -“’Tis all my fault,” he moaned, “all thro’ my sinful weakness that ye are -made to suffer noo, all my fault.” - -She put her fingers on his lips. “Sh! dearie!” she remonstrated softly. -“Dinna’ blame yoursel’. If we suffer noo, we must na’ forget how happy -we have been, and we were happy, weren’t we, laddie?” and she smiled -in fond reminiscence, then continued a trifle unsteadily, “An—an hour’s -happiness is worth a year of pain, for when we get sad an’ lonely, we can -live it all over again, canna’ we?” She paused and sighed pathetically. -“Only it—it isna’ real, is it, laddie?” A sudden break in her voice -caused her to put her hand to her throat and look away with quivering -lips. Then she went on in plaintive, pleading gentleness, “Ye will -sometimes think of me—way up—in the Highlands, won’t ye, dearie? It -willna’ wrong—Jean, for—soon your Mary will be—in Heaven, in her castle -grand.” - -The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes, stilling -the low voice, while frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like knives -suddenly drawn from dark sheaths—yet toward the north over Greenock the -sky was clearing, and streaks and beams of gold fell from the hidden -sun, with a soothing promise of a clear and radiant sunset. Mary’s face -brightened as she watched the sunbeams struggling through the lightened -clouds, and she went on dreamily, in the prolonged lull of the storm: - -“My home there will be so fine, much finer than the castle in Edinburgh.” -She smiled tenderly and let her hand slip down from his head to his -heaving shoulder, where it rested in loving quiet. “How happy I was that -night,” she mused; “an’ the sweet gown was so pretty I—hated to take it -off, but it wasna’ mine.” She paused with quivering lips. “But—but—I -was going to buy one the next day for my own, wasna’ I? A white one—all -smooth and soft and shiny—for—for my wedding gown.” Her voice died away -in a hushed, mournful quaver. - -“Don’t, don’t, Mary!” sobbed Robert unrestrainedly. “I canna’ bear to -think of that noo, noo when I maun give ye up forever.” He stroked her -face and covered her pale, thin, toil-worn hands with heart-breaking -kisses. Presently he grew calmer. “I shall never forget that night, Mary, -that night with its pleasures and pain,” he went on with dreamy pathos. -“It is ever in my thoughts; e’en in my dreams your dear bonnie face -haunts me with its sweet, pathetic smile, and your tender lips seem to -say, ‘laddie, ye were not true to your vows, ye have broken my heart.’” -She gave a little cry of pain. - -“No, no, laddie, I never thought that,” she cried, and she looked at him -with gentle, pitying eyes. - -“I wad try to speak, to implore your forgiveness for the misery I had -caused ye,” continued Robert, his husky voice heard faintly above the -wail of the wind, which shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy -clatter, like a midnight prowler striving to creep in to steal and -plunder. “And in my dumb despair and anguish I would clutch at your -floating garments only to have them vanish into air, and I would awake to -find myself—alone—with my bitter remorse and sorrow.” A low, choked sob -broke from his hollow breast—he covered his face with his hands. “Can ye -ever forgive me?” he murmured. - -Mary regarded him with infinite compassion, a heroic smile on her tired, -quivering lips. “Freely do I forgive everything, laddie,” she replied, -“an’ when I am gone I want ye to remember always that Mary Campbell had -only love, pity and forgiveness in her heart for ye.” She raised her -trembling hands solemnly. “May God bring peace to your troubled heart, -laddie, and may your future dreams be filled with joy and happiness, of -love and prosperity.” - -[Illustration: “The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room.”] - -The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room, her tense, white face -full of patient sorrow. She had sat in the kitchen for an eternity it -seemed to the waiting woman, while Mary was taking her farewell of her -husband. She had tried to talk to Gilbert, to interest herself in the -news of home, but the words simply refused to leave her lips, and so she -had sat there, listlessly watching the children playing around their -uncle’s knee, her ears straining to hear some sound from the other room. -No one knew how she suffered, to step aside, to welcome to her home his -former sweetheart, to know they were there clasped in each other’s arms; -and yet she did not feel bitter toward Mary somehow, strange as it might -seem. She pitied her, she pitied them both, and it filled her with a -strange feeling of surprise that she could feel so. Still loving Robert -as fondly as she did, she could not help the feeling of despair which -crept over her at times, to know, to fully realize, that she held only a -secondary place in his affections, to hear him calling for another, for -Mary. Sometimes in thought she caught herself bitterly arraigning him for -his thoughtlessness, his apparent heartlessness; then the thought of his -weak condition, his ill health, his distracted state of mind, these past -months, tempered her judgment. He was hardly responsible for his actions, -and if he were conscious of his own selfishness he had lost the power, -the strength of will, to restrain his feverish impulses. She wondered -vaguely if it would be different when—when she had passed away forever—if -her memory would still come between them. She hoped not—she prayed that -it might not be so. - -Gilbert had left her to her silent musings, and had gone out to harness -the horses. Returning, he told her that they must start at once, so she -had opened the door to tell them, and as her eyes took in the misery -which was reflected in their white, drawn faces she was moved to intense -pity, and the tears rained slowly down her cheeks. - -“Come, Mary, Gilbert says ’tis time to start,” she faltered. They both -looked up slowly at the sound of her voice, then gazed dully into each -other’s eyes. Presently Mary rose from her chair and stood up unsteadily, -stretching out her little, cold, white hands to Robert, who clutched -them in his own feverish palms as a drowning man clutches a straw. - -“The time has come to part, laddie,” she said bravely, a wan little smile -on her bluish lips. - -A violent shuddering seized him, he did not move for a moment. Finally -he staggered to his feet, and a quiver of agony passed over his face. He -looked at her with dulled, glazed eyes and his face assumed a ghastly hue. - -“’Tis so hard, so cruel, to say good-by forever,” he breathed huskily, -for his throat was dry and parched. His swaying figure tottered a moment, -then he drew her slowly into his arms and pressed his lips to her -forehead. “’Tis the last time on earth, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. Her -lips trembled, but she would not give way to the feeling of dizziness -that threatened to rob her of her consciousness. She must leave him with -a smile, she told herself; she must not make it harder for him. “Yes, for -the last time, Robert,” she repeated slowly. “May God bless and watch -over ye, Robin Adair—till—we—meet in Heaven. Good-by.” Her voice died -away inarticulately, and she sank forward into his arms, where she lay -motionless with closed eyes, utterly spent in body and spirit, and save -for a shivering sob that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost -insensible. Jean rushed quickly forward and drew her into a chair, while -Gilbert fetched a glass of water, which he held to her white lips. - -The wind shook the doors and whistled shrilly through the crevices, then -as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoarse murmurs, through -the branches of the creaking old beech, toward the Loch, and there was a -short, tense silence while they waited to see signs of life appear in the -face of the stricken girl. Presently she opened those azure blue eyes and -smiled up in their anxious faces; then she struggled to her feet, but she -put her hand quickly to her heart and tottered. - -“Oh, my—poor—weak heart,” she gasped faintly. Jean caught her quickly -in her strong arms and stroked her soft cheek with a curious yearning -sensation of love tugging at her heartstrings. - -“Poor dear,” she said compassionately, “you’re too weak to stand so much -excitement,” and she put her back firmly in the chair. Mary attempted to -rise again, but Jean would not permit her. “Gilbert shall carry you to -the carriage,” she told her. Gilbert stepped to her side. - -“I will be a light burden noo, Gilbert,” she faltered, smiling -pathetically into his strong, rugged face, which bore traces of his deep, -bitter grief. Jean gently put her arms about her and in silence implanted -a kiss on her pure, sweet face; then she turned away and covered her face -with her hands. Gilbert bent over and picked up the frail body, and in -spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh that was almost a -groan escaped him, for she was no heavier than a child of a few summers. -He carried her past his brother, who was sitting with head bowed upon his -breast in an attitude of absolute despair. - -“Greet not for me, dearie,” whispered Mary faintly, stretching out her -hand and letting it rest tenderly on his head. “God’s—will—be—done,” and -her dry, burning eyes took their last look, and said their last farewell -as Gilbert slowly carried her from the room and closed the door, shutting -Robert out from her lingering gaze. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high - With every impulse of delight, - Dash from his lips the cup of joy, - And shroud the scene in shades of night; - And let despair, with wizard light, - Disclose the yawning gulf below, - And pour incessant on his sight, - Her spectred ills and shapes of woe. - - -For some moments Robert sat there, apparently dead to his surroundings. -He had not looked up or moved as the door closed upon the retreating -figures. He seemed to be in a state of complete exhaustion of mind and -body. Presently the sound of the carriage rolling over the swishing, -muddy driveway roused him from his lethargy. Raising his head he looked -wildly around the room—then paused and listened—he was as one in a dream, -realizing nothing plainly. He could hardly remember what had taken place -during the past few minutes; he could grasp nothing tangible in thought -or memory, till with a wild start he seemed to awake, as the rattle of -the passing wheels brought back recollection. He staggered to the window -and, throwing back the lattice, gazed out at the rapidly retreating -blur of moving wheels and horses and shapeless figures, and watched it -till it was lost to sight. As he stood there a soft change, a delicate -transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the sky. Pale pink streaks -glittered on the dusky horizon—darts of light began to climb upward into -the clouds, and to plunge downward upon the waving field of hay; the -radiance spread swiftly, till suddenly the whole heavens were bathed in -the glorious light, and the last cloud, fading into nothingness, revealed -the sun in all its matchless glory, hanging low in the sky just above -the hills, behind which it would soon drop in stately splendor. Slowly -the watcher sank down to his knees and leaned his tired head against the -sash, his eyes closed and sunken. - -“She is gone, gone,” he murmured brokenly, “an’ I am left all alone noo, -all alone.” Jean bent over him with pathetic tenderness, and taking his -limp hand in her own warm palm, she said with timid reproach: - -“Not alone, Robert, while you have your—bairns—and me.” She feared to -call his attention to herself in the midst of his grief, lest he might -revile her for standing between him and happiness; but he did not hear. - -“Oh, Jean, how can I take up the burden of life again?” he cried -weakly, clinging to her hand with despairing strength. It thrilled her -strangely to feel the grasp of his hand, to feel his weakness, his sudden -dependence, the appeal in his dark, mournful eyes raised to hers so -pitifully; she knelt beside him and drew his head down on her heaving -bosom. - -“Ye must be brave,” she told him, her voice trembling with a new-found -happiness, a sudden joy. He needed her now, needed her love and care more -than ever. Then she continued softly, her voice vibrating with thrilling -intensity, “Ye have much to live for yet, lad. Ye must be strong, ye must -be brave. Pluck up your courage! I’ll help ye.” - -He looked at her wonderingly, then he slowly bowed his head. “Yes, Jean,” -he said humbly, “I will be strong; I’ll try to be brave.” - -She helped him to his chamber, and placed him beside the window, where he -could no longer watch the road, and left him. For a while he gazed out -over the fields in apathetic calm, his mind a blank. Across the field he -could see Souter Johnny at work in his garden. Suddenly he straightened -up and listened. Souter was singing. - - “O where, an’ O where is my Highland laddie gone?” - -came the old cracked voice. He closed his eyes wearily, but he could not -shut out the sound. - -“Oh, Mary, my lost Highland Mary,” he whispered under his breath. - - -THE END - - * * * * * - -A Truly Great Story - -“THIS WAS A MAN!” - -By HATTIE HORNER LOUTHAN - - His life was gentle; and the elements - So mix’d in him, that Nature might stand up - And say to all the world “This Was a Man!” - - —_Shakespeare_ - -The Victory of a Character over Circumstances. - -If you read but one book this year, this is the book that you should -read. It is the most powerful, soul-stirring tale that has passed through -the presses in many years. It is a story of heredity, a story based on -the belief that “blood will tell,” a story of sinners and of one who “was -a man.” The scene is laid in Colorado at the present time. Frontispiece -of Paul the hero. - - ATTRACTIVELY BOUND IN CLOTH - - Price $1.50 - - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON, MASS. - - * * * * * - -AN ANSWER TO “THE LEOPARD’S SPOTS” - -YARB AND CRETINE - -By DR. GEORGE B. H. SWAYZE - -A Story of the Never-Ending Southern Problem of the Races - -There is action in this book from the very first line until the last; -there is also a deep, genuine heart interest, but greater than either -of these is an able treatise on the greatest of all modern problems—the -black man. Dr. Swayze takes a diametrically opposite view of the question -from that of Rev. Thomas Dixon in “The Leopard’s Spots.” - -It is interesting to compare the books of these two men, the one a -clergyman the other a physician. It would be quite natural to expect that -the man of God would take a somewhat more gentle, more lenient view of -the question than would the man of medicine, but the readers of “YARB AND -CRETINE” assert that quite to the contrary Dr. Swayze has written with a -sympathy and toleration which was totally lacking in the Rev. Mr. Dixon’s -book. - - ILLUSTRATED Price $1.50 CLOTH BOUND - - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON, MASS. - - * * * * * - - _The Lieutenant - The Girl and - The Viceroy_ - -By MARSHALL PUTNAM THOMPSON - -The Story of an American Lieutenant, a Patriotic Beauty and a Spanish -Viceroy in South America - -If you would read a romance, founded on South American and American -history, a romance that will stir your blood and hold your attention from -the moment you begin until you have read the last page, by all means -read “The Lieutenant, The Girl and The Viceroy.” Not a dry or prosy page -in the whole book. Beautifully written and cleverly told. Correct in -historic information, but romantic in conception. - - ILLUSTRATED CLOTH BOUND - - Price $1.50 - - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON, MASS. - - * * * * * - -Maid of the Mohawk - -_By FREDERICK A. RAY_ - -_A ROMANCE OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY IN THE DAYS OF THE REVOLUTION_ - -¶ The picturesque valley of the Mohawk River—one of the tributary streams -of the mighty Hudson—was the theatre of some of the most exciting -incidents of the American Revolution. - -¶ It was settled by a mixture of Dutch, English and Irish and was the -very border land of the Briton’s most terrible ally—the Indian. - -¶ In this fruitful region Mr. Ray has located the principal scenes of his -romance and the only wonder is that no one has done it before him. - -¶ All of the characters are actively concerned in the Revolutionary -War and many of them are historical personages, among whom might be -mentioned: General Washington, Major Andre, Benedict Arnold, Sir Henry -Clinton, James Riverton and many others. Whatever they do in the story is -in perfect harmony with history. - - _BOUND IN CLOTH_ - - _BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLORS_ - - Price, $1.50 - - AT ALL BOOKSELLERS OR SENT PREPAID BY - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., _Boston, Mass._ - - * * * * * - -A WILDERNESS CRY - -By GEORGE EDWARD DAY - -A Story With a Strong Moral Lesson - -A Book That Every Young Man and Woman Should Read.... - -The greatest sacrifice that a woman can make is to give up the man she -loves when she believes it to be her duty. This is the sacrifice which -is made by the heroine of “A Wilderness Cry.” More than that, she is the -wife of the man whom she denounces. For the man it is a harvest of his -wild oats. The book ends happily, however. It is a story of modern times. - - BOUND IN CLOTH ILLUSTRATED - - Price $1.50 - - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON, MASS. - - * * * * * - -A BOOK FOR SAINTS AND SINNERS - -FIRES OF DESIRE - -By LAWRENCE R. MANSFIELD - -The Story of a Modern Adam, and a Modern Eve; the Temptation, the Fall -and the Tragedy - -A young American of the cloth is sent to India as a teacher. He meets a -beautiful native girl, pretends to marry her but in reality betrays her. -Returning to America he finds that his sweetheart has gone to India and -has met the girl he has betrayed. The end is tragic. A tale of great -strength which every one should read. - - ILLUSTRATED BOUND IN CLOTH - - Price $1.50 - - THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. - BOSTON, MASS. - - * * * * * - -The UNTAMED PHILOSOPHER - -AT HOME AND WITH - -THE PLUGONIANS OF PLUGOLIA - -Being a Tale of Hens and some other People - -_by_ FRANK W. HASTINGS - -AUTHOR OF SEVERAL WIDELY UNKNOWN WORKS - -The book is a series of deliciously funny essays on such things as -Marriage, Work, Love, Country, Church, Wrecks, Politics, Sundries, etc. - -The book bears this unique dedication, “To the everlasting, ever present, -ever dignified, ever-plentiful and never murmuring weather these -evidences of dementia are inscribed.” - -It is quite the funniest book of philosophy ever published and one of the -best works of humor that have been issued in many years. - -[Illustration] - - THE C. M. 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