A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted, I am to again press the hand of my patron, my friend.” “The pleasure is mutual, my lad!” he replied. A kindly smile lighted up his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through the north with its Highland chieftains and lords at your feet, has not turned your head after all.” Robert laughed good-naturedly. “Not a bit of it,” he replied frankly. “Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this juncture. Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an unexpected pleasure, sir.” “The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and were delighted at the ovation you received.” Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his sonorous voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble Robbie Burns they were cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane yet.” He regarded the great publisher with kindling eyes. “That I am so favorably known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, _The Lounger_, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous criticism which was so judicious withal.” A little murmur of approval from his listeners greeted his last words. “’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend a helping hand to assist a struggling genius.” “Thank ye,” said Robert, simply. “I believe you have never met our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Sterne, author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made the introduction. Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified scholar. “Little did I ever dream,” he said fervently, “that I would one day meet and converse with my two favorite authors.” A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged features of the scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously, “if my book has found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged in an animated conversation, much to the chagrin of one of his admirers, who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the opportunity to deliver it. “No one would ever take him for a farmer,” she thought in open-mouthed, worshipful adoration.