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.