“There was work enough for a’,” replied Robert in a low tone, an agony of remorse in his voice. “An’ I tried to fulfill faithfully the uncongenial tasks set before me, but I would sink into dreams, forgetting my surroundings, my duties, and would set me doon to put on paper the thoughts and fancies which came rushing through my brain, raging like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme; then the conning o’er my verses like a spell soothed all into quiet again.” A far away rapt expression came over his countenance as he finished, and his dark glowing eyes gazed dreamily into space, as if communing with the Muses. Mrs. Burns and Mary both watched him with moist, adoring eyes, hardly breathing lest they should disturb his reverie. Gilbert stirred in his chair restlessly. “Ye will never prosper unless ye give up this day dreaming,” he exclaimed impatiently, rising from his chair and pacing the floor. Robert looked up, the fire fading from his eyes, his face growing dark and forbidding. “I ken that weel, Gilbert,” he answered bitterly. “An’ I despair of ever makin’ anything of mysel’ in this world, not e’en a poor farmer. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy nor the flutter of the gay. I’m but an idle rhymster, a ne’er-do-weel.” He walked quickly to the window and stood dejectedly looking out into the night. “Nay, ye’re a genius, lad,” declared old Souter emphatically, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. “I havena’ watched your erratic ways for nothin’, an’ I say ye’re a genius. It’s a sad thing to be a genius, Robert, an’ I sympathize wi’ ye,” and the old hypocrite shook his head dolefully as he took his seat at the fireplace. “I’m a failure, I ken that weel. I’m a failure,” muttered Robert despairingly, his heart heavy and sad. “Nay, laddie, ye mustna’ talk like that,’tis not right,” cried Mary, bravely keeping back the sympathetic tears from her eyes and forcing a little smile to her lips. “Ye are only twenty-five,” she continued earnestly. “An’ all your life is stretchin’ out before ye. Why, ye mustna ever think o’ failure. Ye must think only of bright, happy things, and ye’ll see how everythin’ will come out all right. Noo mind that. So cheer thee, laddie, or ye’ll make us all sad on this your hame-comin’. Come, noo, look pleasant,” and she gave his arm a loving little shake. As his stern face melted into a sad smile, she laughed happily. “That’s right, laddie.” With a little encouraging nod she left him, and running to Mrs. Burns, she gave her a hug and a kiss, until the old lady’s grim features relaxed. Then like a bird she flitted to the other side of the room. “Souter Johnny,” she saucily cried, “how dare ye look so mournful like. Hae ye a fit o’ the gloom, man?” “Not a bit o’ it,” retorted Souter energetically, jumping lightly to his feet. “Will I stand on my head for ye, Mary, eh?” Mary laughed merrily as Mrs. Burns replied in scathing tones, “Your brains are in your boots, noo, Souter Johnny.”