“Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And like a bird sang o’ its luve, And fondly sae did I o’ mine; Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; But my fausse luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.” Jean, coming into the room a little later, found him there, his head resting on his hands, a smile of contented calm upon his face, which now seemed like the face of the youth she had known in Mauchline, and the sight thrilled her strangely and brought a spasm of pain to her overcharged heart. CHAPTER XXVII That morning, when Robert first caught sight of the rose, he had experienced a sort of mental obsession in which his brain was mastered by the thought—an absurd idea perhaps, and one which his reason and his will both might easily have repelled, only he clung fondly to the belief, letting it fasten itself upon his mind and grow and grow—that Mary had passed away in the night, and that her spirit had found a temporary resting place in the heart of the white rose that had blossomed forth so unexpectedly, so unseasonably. He had watched the nodding flower on its long, slender stem of green, waving gracefully in the light breeze that had sprung up, and in his state of dreaming consciousness fancied he could see the wistful face of Highland Mary peeping out from among the snowy petals. As the feeling grew upon him that she had come to him in spirit, a great content settled down and around him, a mighty calm that seemed to still the troubled waters of his soul, and all the bitter discontent, the yearnings of his heart, the cravings, the unrest, faded away like a mist dissolved by the warm splendor of the sun. For a while he had sat there in blissful peace, a smile of ineffable rapture on his face, gazing with rapt adoring eyes at the dancing rose, which seductively blew nearer and nearer to him with each gust of the swiftly rising wind, then as he would lovingly stretch out his hand to touch it, to caress it, away it would go, eluding him like a dancing sunbeam, to the farthest side of the bush, bending its saucy head lower and lower till it was lost to sight for an instant, then up it would bound, gayly nodding, and then for a moment would pause in its restless elfin dance, quivering on its stem as though tired with its sportive play, its coquetry. The sky had grown gradually darker, and little waves disturbed the smooth surface of the greenish gray grass that swayed and undulated in running billows, as the wind rose. But the kneeling man was all unconscious of the gloom that had settled over the landscape, shutting out the glorious sunshine, stilling the song of the birds, and bringing in its train a damp chill that presaged a storm. The wind tossed the curls madly about the face of the poet, but still he did not move; only as the chill air struck through his thin shirt, he mechanically pulled