“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.”