was expected of her, and inflicted pain when she might have given pleasure. She had been rude, and to be rude was criminal in her code of manners; and a flutter of other questions, other curiosities, awoke without any will of her own in the young creature’s maiden bosom; for, indeed, she was still very young, not nineteen, and so preoccupied by one class of thoughts that her mind had been absolutely barred against all others until now. The end was that Alice put away Colin’s poem in the private pocket of her writing-case, the very innermost of her sanctuaries. “How clever he is,” she thought to herself; “how odd that such things should come into any one’s head; and to think I had not even the civility to say that it was beautiful poetry!” Then she went back very humbly into the sitting-room, and served Colin with the last cup of tea, which was the most excellent. “For I know you like strong tea, Mr. Campbell,” she said, looking at him with appealing eyes. “It feels quite strange to think that we should know you so well--you who can write such beautiful poetry,”[1] she managed to say later in the evening. “I have always supposed a poet so different.” “With wings, perhaps?” said Colin, who was not displeased even with this simple testimony. “Oh no,” said Alice, “that is impossible, you know--but certainly very different; and it was so very kind to think of giving it to me.” Thus she made her peace with the young man--but it is doubtful how far she promoted her own by so doing. It introduced a new element of wonder and curiosity, if nothing more, into her watching life. CHAPTER XXXIII. “It would be a great satisfaction to me,” said Lauderdale, “to have some understanding about their relations. There’s few folk so lonely in this world but what they have some kin, be they kind or not. It’s awfu’ to look at this poor bit thing, and think how forlorn she’ll be by and by, when----” “When?” said Colin--“what do you mean? Meredith is not worse that I can see. Is _that_ what you are thinking of?” “It’s an awfu’ gradual descent,” said Lauderdale; “nae precipices there--and pitiful to behold; but he’s making progress on his way. I’m no mistaken, callant; a man like me has seen such sights before. It looks as if it could go on for ever, and nae great difference perceptible from day to day; but the wheel’s aye turning and the thread spinning off, and nobody can say for certain what moment it may break, like glass, and the spinning come to an end. Ay, it’s an awfu’ mystery. You may break your heart thinking, but you’ll come to no solution. I’ve tried it as much as most men, and should ken;--but that’s no the matter under consideration. I would be glad to know something about their friends.”