The depressing gloom thus lifted, they soon drifted into a friendly, earnest conversation, and the minutes sped by without, however, the looked-for interruption of the overdue postman. Outside, the mist had long since been dispersed by the warm rays of the noonday sun, which was now shining brilliantly. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf of the wild rose bushes which clustered beneath the window of the little cot, and on every blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets and blue-bells scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the meadow lark pierced the air with a subdued far-off shrillness. Suddenly the peaceful stillness was broken in upon by the sound of footsteps crunching slowly along the garden path on their way to the door of the cottage. The Duke of Gordon and his daughter had arrived in Dumfries the night before, and, after a night’s rest, they took the coach to Ellisland and put up at the little old Inn. There they made inquiries for the whereabouts of the home of the poet of the little old man who was boastfully describing the splendors of MacDougall House, none other than our old friend Souter, once more in his breeches, having asserted his authority, much to his wife’s secret satisfaction, for “she did so love a masterful man.” Whereupon Souter condescendingly offered to conduct them to the place they sought. And now, as they looked at the poor clay biggin and the evidences of poverty and neglect which surrounded them on all sides, their hearts sank within them. “I suppose we will find Mr. Burns greatly changed?” said Nancy interrogatively with a little shudder of dread. “Weel, mum,” replied Souter reflectively, “we all change in time, ye ken. Some for worse, like mysel’, and some for the better, like yoursel’, askin’ your pardon for my boldness. And ye ken Robbie’s life has been very hard these past few years.” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. “But I want to say right here,” and his heavy eyebrows drew together in a black scowl, “Robbie Burns’ sickness is na’ due to his drinkin’, as ye people of Edinburgh believe, and put in yer penny papers. Robbie is na drunkard. I hae known him from infancy, and I affirm that he has never been guilty of the gross enormities he has been charged with. He could always attend to his duties,” and he looked with aggressive suspicion into the downcast faces of his listeners for some sign of doubt of his assertion, which, though stanchly loyal, was not altogether true, as he knew only too well. “But there is nae use telling all ye know,” he told himself philosophically. “And what people don’t know about the food they eat, will no hurt their appetites.” “I am very glad to hear that,” ejaculated the Duke warmly. “An’ he is a fond father an’ a maist affectionate husband,” continued Souter stoutly. “I’ll go in noo and tell him ye’re here,” and he strode into the house, leaving the couple standing in the path much to their astonishment.