“Ye’re making it hard for me to go, mither,” he cried, utterly distracted. “But the die is cast, my hands are on the plow, an’ I canna turn back noo. Ye ken there is naught but disappointment an’ disgrace to look forward to here, an’——” Suddenly a loud cheer from outside the cottage interrupted him. They listened in silent wonder. Above the noise of the wind, which had risen to a gale, and the swish of the rain, which now beat in swirling gusts about the cottage, came the voices of Souter and Donald shouting and cheering like boys on a frolic. Quickly they opened the door. A gust of wind dashed the rain fiercely in their faces. Through the mist and gloom they could vaguely make out the outlines of a coach standing at the gate, which had approached unheard in the storm. “Robert, Robert!” cried Souter, looming up out of the darkness and looking decidedly weatherbeaten. “’Tis news I have, great and glorious news.” “News?” they all repeated in wonder. “What is it, mon?” asked Rob, trembling with excitement. “It can speak for itsel’,” replied Souter gleefully, “for here it is.” He pointed behind him. They looked down the path and saw rapidly approaching the door a tall man, enveloped in a long cloak, escorted by a servant in livery. At that moment the light fell on his wet face and they started forward in amazement. “Lord Glencairn?” cried Robert incredulously, his heart throbbing with a strange new-born hope. “Aye, my lad, and near drowned,” laughed the visitor genially. Robert grasped his outstretched hand and drew him to the door. With words of welcome and delight they made room for him to enter. Quickly he removed his wet cloak from his shoulders and threw it to his servant, who hung it beside the fire, while descanting on the inclemency of the weather. Nervously and anxiously they waited for the great man to speak his errand. Presently he turned from the fireplace, and, addressing Robert, he said brightly, “Well, Mr. Burns, you see I have not forgotten you.” “Oh, my lord,” faltered Robert, his face white with suppressed feeling, “I—I had despaired of seein’ you mair; do ye—bring me—hope? Is it—am I——” his faltering voice stopped abruptly, but his eager eyes continued to search the noble face which was looking so kindly into his, as if he would draw the news from him. “It is good news,” answered Lord Glencairn, smiling brightly, “and you are famous; yes, my lad, your poems are at last published and already have become the rage in Edinburgh; the name of Robert Burns is on the tongue of all, high and low, prince and peasant.” “Thank God,” cried Mary softly, a look of rapture on her face. Mrs. Burns turned excitedly to her son, her hands clasped nervously. “Oh, laddie, laddie, ye’re a great mon, noo!” she exclaimed proudly.