The wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree was shrieking and groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the tempest. The Ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard. Unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his listener with unutterable sadness: “Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves. Farewell my friends, farewell my foes, My peace with thee, my love with those; The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.” As his voice died away he heard the sound of sobbing, and looked up, to see his mother standing in the doorway. “Come awa’, lad, come in out of the night air!” she called tenderly, controlling her sobs. Silently they entered the cottage. Robert crossed the room to his brother’s side. “Gilbert,” he said quietly, “ye take the songs an’ verses ye will find on my table an’ send them to Mr. Aiken. Mayhap they will bring you in a bit o’ money to help ye in your struggle wi’ poverty, an’ forgive me that I maun leave ye to battle wi’ misfortune alone.” Turning to Mary he continued, lovingly, “Mary, lass, will ye accept my Bible as a parting gift?” She looked at him with shining eyes. “Ye’ll find it in the oak box with the glass lid in the attic.” “I’ll prize it for aye, Robert,” she sobbed gratefully, pressing his hand, “an’ our prayers will follow ye to that far distant land, where I hope success awaits ye.” He drew her to him gently and pressed a kiss on her pure brow. “Farewell, lassie, may ye be happy,” he breathed fervently. Turning again to Gilbert he spoke rapidly, “Farewell, brother, give my love to the dear brothers an’ sisters when they come hame.” He shook his hand warmly. “God keep ye, Robert,” answered Gilbert quietly. Gently Robert drew his weeping mother into his arms. Tenderly he pulled down the apron which she had flung over her head to hide her sorrow, and wiped away her tears. “Noo, mother,” he whispered brokenly, “I—I maun say good-by; the day has drawn to its close an’ I maun start on my journey to Greenock. Dinna greet, dear mither.” He let her weep on unconstrainedly a few moments. Finally her bitter sobbing ceased and looking up into his face she cried passionately, “I canna give ye up, my son, never to see ye again.” She took his cheeks lovingly between her hands.