“It doesn’t seem right, father,” said Lady Nancy sadly, “for such genius to dwell in that little hut, amid such surroundings. How I pity him.” There was a suggestion of tears in the sweet voice which her fond father noticed with sudden apprehension. He looked at her closely. “Who is to blame for his being here?” he retorted firmly. She remained discreetly silent. Then he continued in a softer voice, “But I mustn’t blame nor censure him, now that he is sick, and down at the bottom again. It is, indeed, a lasting pity that such genius should be allowed to smother here in poverty and among questionable companions, who, ’tis said, seek only to bring him to their level, and who, alas! are but too surely dragging him there, I fear, a weak, unresisting, but also a remorseful, repentant victim.” “And must he stay on here, father, to die a poor exciseman?” asked Nancy with a strangely beating heart. “Even the added salary of the Supervisorship cannot be sufficient to keep such a family.” At that moment Souter opened the door. They turned to him quietly. “Well, what says Mr. Burns?” asked the Duke impatiently. A little smile of amusement appeared on Souter’s face. “Mr. Burns begs you to enter and to be seated,” he replied. They complied with the injunction and were shown into the living-room, where they seated themselves. “I was also to tell ye,” continued Souter dryly, “that he will be with ye as soon as he can get into his damned rags.” “What!” exclaimed the Duke laughingly. “Excuse me, your ladyship,” answered Souter with a little nod to Lady Nancy, “but them’s his own words and I’m no the one to change the language o’ a Scottish poet.” “Has he only rags to wear?” asked Lady Nancy pitifully. “Hush!” cautioned her father, “he is here.” The door opened and Robert slowly entered the room. He had thrown his wide plaid around his shoulders, over his loose white shirt, and held it together with one hand that gleamed very white and thin against the bright colors. His black hair, now faintly streaked with gray and which had thinned considerably above his forehead, hung loosely about his neck, framing his gaunt face, and accentuating his pallor. For a moment they gazed upon the wreck of the once stalwart and ruggedly healthy youth, too shocked to utter a word. Robert was the first to break the silence. “My lord,” he exclaimed with something of his old brightness, “I am rejoiced, indeed, to see you at Ellisland. ’Tis a great surprise, but none the less a welcome one.” He shook the Duke’s outstretched hand with fervor. “The pleasure is mutual, my lad,” responded the Duke warmly. “’Tis a few years now since we parted, and in anger, too.”