On the following morning the heat was intense. No breath of air stirred a ripple on the sluggishly-flowing Nith, and there was a heaviness in the atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such hot weather was unusual for that part of Scotland, and, according to Souter Johnny, betokened some change. The sun was dazzling, yet there was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the distant mountains which lay beyond Mossgiel, for there was no wind stirring, and Robert, seated in his chair by the window, found himself too warm with his thick plaid wrapped closely around him, and throwing it back he let the sunshine bathe him in its golden glow and play on the uncovered ebony of his hair. He no longer watched the road with such eager intensity. Rarely this morning had his gaze wandered beyond the bush beneath the window, with its one snowy-white rose, the last rose of summer, nestling among the faded, worm-eaten leaves, looking so pure, so fragrant, so delicately white against the background of rusty, dead-looking foliage. It had blossomed in the night, and in the morning when he had approached the lattice from force of habit, although he had given up all hope of seeing Mary before she left Ayrshire, he had spied it in all its delicate beauty. Each morning for six days now he had gone to that window, expecting before the day drew to its close to see the beloved form of his Mary approach, only to go to his bed at night in bitter disappointment. Gilbert’s letter stated she would start that day, and now the sixth day had come and yet there was no sign of her. He had told himself he would not watch the road this morning; there was no use, she had gone; she had not wanted to see him; she felt too bitter against him—it was only natural she should. These bitter thoughts had filled his mind with misery and wretchedness as he drew near the open window. Suddenly his eyes had rested on the spot of white nestling on the top of the bush. With a strange thrill at his heart, he had knelt down beside the latticed window, and folding his arms on the sill, gazed at the message from heaven, sent to bring peace and hope to his aching heart, so he fondly believed, while bright tears filled his eyes and brimmed over, falling warmly on his folded hands. “Oh, Mary, my love, my love!” he whispered brokenly. “Come to me before ye die.” And all that morning he had watched it expand and stretch out its petals to its utmost, wafting its perfume up into his grateful nostrils, till a peace such as had not visited his heart for many years, smoothed out the lines of suffering from his brow and softened the hard light in his deepened eyes. A verse of a poem he had written a few years before flashed across his memory: