“‘Highland Mary’? what a dear name,” interrupted Lady Glencairn sweetly, smiling at Robert. “Who is she, may I ask?” and she leaned forward questioningly in her chair. “She is a—a friend,” he replied, flushing to the roots of his hair. Then he continued, softly, his eyes lighting up with love and devotion, “An’ she is as sweet and fragrant as a sprig of pure white heather plucked from her native Highlands.” “Aye, and she’ll make a fine wife for Robert,” added Mrs. Burns complacently. “Aye, finer than I deserve, mither,” he replied, looking uneasily at Jean, who had started violently, then quickly leaned back against the door post, pale and trembling. “Marry her? Never! He cannot, he must not,” she muttered to herself, frantically. “Why, Jean!” cried Lady Glencairn, going to her in sudden alarm. “What ails you, why do you look so wild?” “I—I’m—a pain gripped my heart most suddenly,” she faltered. “I find it over warm here,” she gasped. “I’ll await you without,” and she left the room, a strange, frightened look on her pale face. With a puzzled frown Lady Glencairn turned and sank thoughtfully into a chair. Looking up suddenly, she caught Robert’s eye fastened upon her face in eager scrutiny. “Let me see, what were we speaking about?” she inquired indifferently. “Ye were kind enough to ask me about my poetry,” answered Rob quietly. Jean’s queer behavior troubled him. What did it all mean? He feared she had aroused suspicion in her ladyship’s mind. “Oh, to be sure, and I vow I’m curious,” she replied brightly. “I should like to read one of your poems, Mr. Burns, if you have one at hand.” “He has bushels of them in the attic, your ladyship,” eagerly spoke Mrs. Burns. “Aye, mother,” laughed Robert, “all waiting for the publisher. Here is one I but this day scribbled off, if—if ye really care to read it,” he added bashfully, taking a scrap of paper from the pocket of his loose shirt and handing it to Lady Glencairn. She took it with a smile of amused indifference. A farmer and a poet! the idea was absurd. With an almost imperceptibly sarcastic lifting of her delicate eyebrows she read the title, “‘Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes.’” Then she read the verse in growing wonder and astonishment. She had thought to please him with a word of praise, even if they were laughably commonplace and prosaic; but it was with genuine enthusiasm that she heartily cried, “Really, ’tis a gem, Mr. Burns, so charming withal, such beautiful sentiment, and writ in most excellent style. Read it, James,” and she handed it to Lord Glencairn, who carefully perused it with apparent delight in its rhythmic beauty of composition. “Thank ye, my lady,” replied Robert, flushing. “Your praise is o’er sweet to my hungry ear.” She gazed at him in open admiration.