The last few weeks Gilbert had thrown off his cloak of habitual reserve, and had treated his brother with less harshness, less severity. He had watched the slowly drifting apart of the lovers with wonder and delight. Could it be that they were tiring of each other? he asked himself over and over again. If that were so then perhaps some day—but he would not permit himself to think of the future. He would be happy in the present. For he was comparatively happy now, happier than he had ever expected to be. Since Robert’s avoidance of her, Mary had again turned to him for sympathy, and once more they were on their old friendly footing. True she was a sad, despondent companion, but he was blissfully happy just to walk beside her from kirk, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice, even though his brother was the only topic of conversation, to feel the touch of her little hand as he helped her over the stile. He thought of all this now as he regarded his brother in thoughtful silence. Presently he called his name. Receiving no answer, he strode through the overhanging willows and touched him quietly on the shoulder. With a start Robert looked up into his brother’s face, then he turned slowly away. “What is wrong noo, Gilbert?” he asked bitterly. “It seems I will be doing nothing right o’ late.” “Nothin’ is wrong, lad,” replied Gilbert, his face reddening. “I—I only came to tell ye I am sorry I spoke sae harshly to ye just noo.” “Say no more, brother,” replied Robert quickly, rising with outstretched hand, his face bright and smiling. So ready was he to forgive any unkindness when his pardon was sought. “’Tis all forgot. I ken I do try your patience sore wi’ my forgetfulness and carelessness, but I couldna’ help it. The voice of the Goddess Muse, whom I adore, suddenly whispered in my ear and I forgot my work, my surroundings, and stood enraptured, entranced behind my patient steed, catchin’ the thoughts and fancies that were tumblin’, burstin’ from my brain, eager to be let loose, and this is the fruit o’ my inspiration almost perfected.” He handed his brother the paper on which he had been writing. “Is it a song of harvesting?” asked Gilbert sarcastically without glancing at it. “Nay,” replied Robert softly. “’Tis called the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ an’ ye will recognize, no doubt, the character and the theme, for ’tis partly of our own and of our father’s life I have written. ’Tis my best work, Gilbert, I ken truly.” He eagerly watched his brother’s face as he slowly read the verses through. “May the light of success shine on it,” he said kindly, when he had finished. “But it seems o’er doubtful noo that the world will e’er see this, or any of your verses, for not a word hae ye heard from Edinburgh since ye sent Sir William Creech your collection of poems.”