“Pardon my question, Mr. Burns,” said he, “but surely the excise allows you a salary?” Rob laughed mirthlessly. “Aye,” he replied, “the munificent sum of thirty pounds a year.” “Thirty pounds a year!” repeated Mackenzie incredulously. “Aye, only half of which I am getting now,” explained Robert bitterly. “Ye see I am ill and off duty.” “And are there no royalties on your songs or published collection coming to you?” “Ask Sir William,” retorted Robert bitterly. “There is no demand for your poems since you left Edinburgh,” replied Sir William crustily. “The youth Walter Scott has taken your place in their regard. He shows a remarkable talent for rhyming.” And a malicious smile appeared on his crafty face as he noted the quick flush appear on the expressive countenance of the sick man. His quivering features betrayed how deeply the barbed dart had entered his heart. He turned to Mr. Mackenzie with a resigned little gesture. “Ye see, sir,” he faltered with a pathetic smile, “how soon I am forgot.” He paused, and the weak tears of sickness welled up into his eyes; then he resumed with a shade of bitterness, “Scott is sure to succeed, for he is of noble birth. He’ll not be patronized, at least.” Mr. Mackenzie had been thinking deeply, and now he turned to Robert with a resolute air. “Mr. Burns,” he said earnestly, “with your consent, I will go to the Board of Commissioners of Excise, of which the Duke of Gordon is the chairman, and move them to grant you full salary. They are well known to me and I am sure will not refuse my request.” A glad smile broke up Robert’s gloomy features. “Ye are a friend, indeed!” he cried fervently. “God grant they do not refuse you, for if they do, I must lay my account with an exit truly _en poète_, for if I die not with disease, I must perish with hunger.” “Your interference will do no good here, Mr. Mackenzie,” hotly declared Sir William, glaring at Robert hatefully. “I think it will,” returned Mr. Mackenzie coolly. “’Twould be Lord Glencairn’s wishes were he alive, and his wishes will be respected by the Board, mark well what I tell you,” and he flashed him a significant look of defiance. Then turning to Robert, he shook him by the hand and bade him adieu, saying that he must return at once to Edinburgh. “And rest assured,” he concluded, “I will inform you at once of the decision of the Board, which without doubt will be favorable. Cheer up, my man, Scotland will not allow her ablest son to die of want and neglect, if Henry Mackenzie can prevent it.” “Heaven bless ye!” responded Robert gratefully. “Mr. Burns, if you——” began Mr. Mackenzie, then he hesitated a moment, but finally after a moment’s thought continued his sentence—“if you will but accept a loan,” and his hand sought his pocket, but Robert shook his head decidedly. “No, no, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said proudly; “I canna’ accept it, thank ye.” Mackenzie sighed. “Oh, you sensitive people,” he remarked, “pride and poverty.”