He felt an infinite pity for his brother, who was leaving behind him everything he held dear. “If she will come to me,” faltered Robert. “Tell her I’m goin’ an’ that I will go wi’ a lighter heart if she bids me godspeed. Watch o’er an’ protect her, Gilbert,” he continued, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “An’ I hope one day she may forget faithless Robert Burns, an’—an’ ye, Gilbert, will be made happy.” He turned away as he finished, grief gnawing at his heart. An eager light flashed in Gilbert’s eyes as he answered fervently, “I would lay doon my life to serve her,” and with a quick look into the averted face he quietly left the room. Mechanically Rob took his bonnet from the peg and throwing his long plaid around him went out into the air, and silently, sorrowfully he stood there watching the gloomy clouds that hung low in the heavens through eyes misty with tears. His soul was filled with unutterable sorrow at the coming parting, with dread of the unknown future to be passed alone in a strange, inhospitable foreign land. Oh, the agony of that thought, alone! Suddenly there came floating softly, peacefully, borne on the back of the south wind, which was blowing gently against his face, the alluring, seductive voice of the Goddess Muse. Insistently she urged her way into the dulled and listless ear of the grief-stricken man. Not for long was she denied admission, however. With a cry of joy, that even in that dreaded hour of parting his Goddess had not deserted him, he eagerly opened the book he held in his hand, his favorite book, “Tristam Shandy” by Sterne, and wrote quickly, lovingly on the flyleaf the impassioned words which were being whispered in his ear. Hungrily the pencil sped over the paper, till, with a sigh of regret, he dropped his hand, the voice was hushed, the message was finished. As he stood there eagerly reading his verses by the light which streamed through the window, the door softly opened and Mary came swiftly to his side, her pure face pitiful in its childlike sorrow. “Is it true ye are gang awa’ frae Scotland, Robbie?” she asked breathlessly. He bowed his head. “Oh, my heart beats heavy for ye, laddie.” There was infinite compassion in her voice. “But ye maun be brave noo if ever ye were.” She nestled her little hand in his. He clasped it fervently. “O, Mary, my Highland lassie!” he cried passionately, “I want to hear ye say before I go that ye forgive me for the sorrow I have brought into your pure young life.” “Hush, laddie,” she answered softly, “there is naught to forgive; ye had to do your duty like an honorable mon. I hae been very happy wi’ ye, laddie, an’ the memory o’ that happiness will be wi’ me always.” She leaned against him for a brief moment, then slowly drew herself away and looked tenderly up into his face. “In this sad parting hour,” she faltered, “I can tell ye without shame that I love ye wi’ a’ my being, an’ will until I dee.”