“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.