“Mary, lass, were ye hidin’ awa’ from me?” he asked in tender reproach. She dropped her head bashfully without a word. “’Tis o’er sweet in ye, dear, to come over to welcome me hame,” he continued radiantly. “Come an’ let me look at ye,” and he drew her gently to where the candle light could fall on her shy, flushed face. “Oh, ’tis bonnie ye’re looking, lassie,” he cried proudly. He raised her drooping head, so that his hungry eyes could feast on her beauty. She stood speechless, like a frightened child, not daring to raise her eyes to his. “Haven’t ye a word of welcome for me, sweetheart?” he whispered tenderly, drawing her to him caressingly. “I’m—I’m very glad to hae ye back again,” she faltered softly, her sweet voice scarcely audible. “Go an’ kiss him, Mary; dinna’ mind us,” cried Souter impatiently. “I can see ye’re both asking for it wi’ your eyes,” he insinuated. And he drew near them expectantly. “Hauld your whist, ye old tyke,” flashed Mrs. Burns indignantly. “Robbie Burns doesna’ need ye to tell him how to act wi’ the lassies.” “I’ll not dispute ye there,” replied Souter dryly, winking his eye at Robert knowingly. Robert laughed merrily as he answered, “Ye ken we’re both o’er bashful before ye a’.” “Ah, ye’re a fine pair of lovers, ye are,” retorted Souter disgustedly, turning away. “So the neighbors say, Souter,” responded Robert gayly, giving Mary a loving little squeeze. And surely there never was a handsomer couple, thought Mistress Burns proudly, as they stood there together. One so dark, so big and strong, the other so fair, so fragile and winsome. And so thought Gilbert Burns jealously, as he came quietly into the room. Robert went to him quickly, a smile lighting up his dark face, his hand outstretched in greeting. “I’m o’er glad to see ye again, Gilbert,” he cried impulsively, shaking his brother’s limp hand. “So ye’ve come back again,” said Gilbert, coldly. “Aye, like a bad penny,” laughingly responded Robert. “Noo that I am burned out of my situation, I’ve come hame to help ye in the labors of the farm,” and he pressed his brother’s hand warmly. “I fear your thoughts willna’ lang be on farming,” observed Gilbert sarcastically, going to the fireplace and deliberately turning his back to Robert. “I’ll struggle hard to keep them there, brother,” replied Robert simply. His brother’s coldness had chilled his extraordinarily sensitive nature. He walked slowly back to his seat. “I ken ye’d rather be writin’ love verses than farmin’, eh, Robert?” chimed in Souter thoughtlessly. “’Tis only a waste of time writin’ poetry, my lad,” sighed Mrs. Burns, shaking her head disapprovingly. “I canna’ help writin’, mother,” answered the lad firmly, a trifle defiantly. “For the love of poesy was born in me, and that love was fostered at your ain knee ever since my childhood days.” She sighed regretfully. “I didna’ ken what seed I was sowing then, laddie,” she answered thoughtfully.