Up to his brow the Cornal put a trembling hand and seemed amazed and startled. Then he recollected, and a sad smile came to his visage. “Not a clod altogether yet!” said he, half to himself and half to his brother. “I felt the flutter of a wing. But it’s not your grief or mine this time, Jock; it’s your poor recruit’s.” “He’s down in Miss Mary’s room, and that’s the place for the like of him.” “Is it?” said the Cornal. “Dugald understood him best of any of us; he saw this coming, and I mind that he grieved for the fellow.” “He’s grieving plenty for himself, and let him!” said the Paymaster, setting aside his journal. “Look what he dropped from his pocket this morning. Peggy thought it was mine and she took it to me. Mine! Fancy that! I’m jalousing she was making a joke of me.” He produced, as he spoke, a scrap of paper with some verses on it and handed it to his brother. The Cornal held the document far from his failing eyes and perused the writing. It was the first of those heart-wrung fancies that went to the making of the volume that lies before me as I write--the familiar lament for the lost “Maid of the Moor” that shepherds still are singing on his native hills. “A ballant!” said he, wondering, and with some contempt. “That’s just what it is,” said his brother. “There was never the like broke out in this family before, I’m glad to say.” The Cornal screwed his lips firmly. “It’s what I would call going altogether too far,” he said. “I’m feared your recruit will affront us again. A song, now! did you ever know the like of it? I’ll not put up with it! Did you say he was down with Miss Mary?” “I saw her laying the corner of the table,” said the Paymaster, “and I’ll warrant it was not to feed herself at this time of day.” The Cornal looked again at the verses, clearing his eyes with his hand, as if he might happily be mistaken. But no, there were the foolish lines, and some sentiments most unmanly frank of love and idleness among the moor and heather. He growled; he frowned below his shaggy brows: “Come down this instant and put an end to it,” said he. “He’s with Mary,” his brother reminded him, hesitating. “I don’t care a curse if he was with the Duke,” said the Cornal. “I’ll end this carry-on in an honest and industrious family.” He led the way downstairs, the Paymaster following softly, both in their slippers. Noiselessly they pushed open the door of Miss Mary’s room and gazed within. She and her darling were looking over the window at the tumultuous crowd of children scrambling for Young Islay’s bowl-money scattered by Black Duncan in the golden syver sand. Miss Mary in that position could not but have her arm about his waist, and her hand unconsciously caressed the rough home-spun of his jacket. The brothers, unobserved, stood silent in the doorway.