“Look here, Mistress Nancy!” he exclaimed as soon as he recovered his breath, “why do you want to take this wearisome journey at this season of the year, just to visit the home of this poor exciseman?” and he wonderingly regarded the face that had suddenly grown flushed and pensive, as she looked with worshipful eyes at the large engraving over the fireplace, which contained the figure of Burns in a characteristic attitude, reading one of his poems to the group of people that surrounded him. “I want to see him once more before the fire of his genius grows cold,” she answered dreamily. “I want to see him in his home with his—his wife and children around him.” She might have told him that she was heart-hungry for a sight of that dark, glowing face, the flashing black eyes that had thrilled her with such blissful pain, for the sound of that rich, majestic voice, that had so often stirred the uttermost depths of her heart. She felt that the yearning of her soul would not be satisfied till she had seen him again, spoken with him. She hoped, yet dreaded, that the sight of his changed face, his miserable surroundings, the commonplaceness of it all, of meeting the exciseman with his wife and children around him, rather than the idealized poet, would silence forever the strange unrest of her soul, banish all thoughts of sentiment from her mind, and destroy the spell of glamour which he had all unconsciously thrown about her. These thoughts flew through her mind with lightning speed while her father was making up his mind how best to dissuade her from her purpose. “I fear me, Nancy, ’twill give us both more pain than pleasure,” he said finally. “We may even lose our respect for him.”