“He’s had a most exciting morning,” she exclaimed gently, “and needs rest now. He’ll be feeling more peart to-morrow,” and she held out her hand in dismissal. “Ye mean get out, eh, Mistress?” said Souter good-naturedly. “Weel, weel, Souter Johnny can take a hint.” “Come, Souter,” called Eppy from the open doorway, where she had been impatiently waiting for her bridegroom, “come with me to your—your new home,” and she bashfully held her fan over her face with a nervous little giggle. “Aye, that I will,” replied Souter, with alacrity. He turned to Robert with a new air of dignity which set comically upon his little figure. “If we can do anything for ye, Robert, dinna’ forget to send over to MacDougall House. Dinna’ forget my address. Mrs. MacDougall, my arm.” She grabbed it quickly and they walked to the door. “God-day all,” he called over his shoulder, and with a feeling of great contentment, that at last his troubles were over, and that he was entering upon a new life of ease and plenty, he closed the door behind them, and trotted along beside his wife, grinning like a schoolboy, across the fields to their new home. “Has the Posty come yet?” inquired Robert, after they had gone. “Yes, but he brought no letter for ye,” answered Jean sadly. The words of one of the verses of his “Ode to a Mouse,” came to him with gloomy presentiment. “But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men Gang aft agley; An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain For promised joy; Still thou are blest compared wi’ me! The present only touchest thee; But och! I backward cast my e’e, On prospects drear’; An forward, tho’ I canna’ see, I guess and fear.” CHAPTER XXIII Later that day two men might have been seen galloping their horses at full speed toward the little house on the hillside. They were determined, resolute looking men, evidently bent on serious purpose. Finally they reached the gate, and dismounting made their way to the door, the elder man insisting loudly upon accompanying the other, much to his visible annoyance. “There is no need for secrecy, Gilbert Burns,” said he grimly, and he followed him into the house and to the room where Robert sat with pencil in hand vainly courting his Muse. Jean, who was busily engaged in sewing, jumped to her feet with a little cry of amazement upon seeing her father before her. Robert held out his hand to his brother in delighted surprise, mixed with anxiety. “Brother!” he cried, “what brings ye to Ellisland in such haste? Is it bad news? Mother, our sisters, are they ill?” “Nay,” replied Gilbert constrainedly. “They are all well, Rob, and have sent their love to yourself and family.” “Thank God for that,” responded Robert thankfully. There was a little embarrassed silence, then Gilbert spoke again. “Robert, we—we are in sore trouble,” he confessed, his face anxious and troubled.