“Here, Robert, are some more,” cried Mrs. Burns, entering the room with a box, which she placed before her son. “Show his lordship these, laddie,” and she hovered nervously around, her face flushed with excitement, watching anxiously every look and expression that passed over the faces of their guests. Robert opened the box and selected a few of the poems at random, which he handed to Lord Glencairn without a word. “‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ ‘Willie brewed a peck of malt,’ ‘Holy Willie’s Prayer,’ ‘The Lass of Balbehmyle,’” read Lord Glencairn slowly, glancing over their titles. Then he read them through earnestly, his noble face expressing the interest he felt; then with a sigh of pleasure he passed them to Lady Glencairn, who devoured the written pages eagerly, her face flushed and radiant. When she had finished, she leaned back in her chair and fixed her luminous eyes upon her husband’s beaming face. “James,” said she decidedly, “you will please me well if you will influence some publisher to accept this young man’s poems and place them before the public. I’m sure he is most deserving, and—he interests me greatly.” There was a peculiar glitter in her half-closed eyes as she gazed intently at Robert with an enigmatic smile parting her red lips. The gracious lady with her high-bred air, her alluring smile, her extreme condescension, was a revelation to the country-bred lad, who was brought in close contact for the first time with one so far above his station in life. He felt his awkwardness more than he had ever thought possible as he felt her critical eyes fastened upon him and heard her honeyed words of praise and encouragement. “Mr. Burns,” said his lordship earnestly, “your poems interest me greatly, and I declare such genius as you display should be given an opportunity to develop. It will afford me much pleasure to take these verses, with your permission, back with me to Edinburgh and submit them to Sir William Creech, who is the largest publisher there, and a personal friend of mine, and if he accepts these poems as a criterion of your artistic ability, without the least doubt your success will be at once assured.” He put them carefully in the large wallet he had taken from an inside pocket while he was talking, and replaced it within his coat. Robert looked at him, hardly daring to believe his ears. “I—I canna find words to express my unbounded gratitude to you, my lord,” he faltered, his voice low and shaking. “I’d advise you to make a collection of your poems, my lad,” continued Lord Glencairn quietly, touched by the sight of Robert’s expressive features, which he was vainly trying to control. “Chiefly those in the Scottish dialect; they are new and will create a sensation. Have them ready to forward to town when sent for.” There was a tense silence for a moment when he had finished.