It was the third day of April, a day so cool and mild that every one who could was in the open air, that I sat in the little strip of garden behind my lodging, reading the Symposium of Plato in the light of certain digests of Master Quellinus. The beds of hyacinth, yellow and blue and red, were flaunting before my eyes, and down by the water’s edge the swallows were twittering and skimming. The soft spring wind fluttered the leaves of my book and stirred my hair, so that I found it hard indeed to keep my attention fixed. Some yards behind me Nicol sat cleaning a fishing-rod, for in the idle days he amused himself with trying his skill among the sleepy streams. He was whistling some bars of "Leezie Lindsay," and the tune, which I had often heard in Tweeddale, put me much in mind of home and inclined my heart violently to the place I had left. So soon I found my Plato lying listlessly on my lap, and my thoughts far away over sea. Just now, I knew, would be the lambing-time in the Tweed hills, and all the valleys would be filled with the noise of sheep. The shepherds, too, would be burning the bent, and the moors sending up wreaths of pungent smoke. I minded the smell so well that I almost fancied it was in my nostrils in place of the moist perfume of hyacinth and violet. At Barns, Tam Todd would be seeing to the young trees and fishing in the full streams. At Dawyck, Marjory would be early abroad, plucking the spring flowers and bringing in armfuls of apple-blossom to deck the rooms. The thought of Marjory gave me sudden discomfort. I reflected for the thousandth time that I had heard nothing of her for months, and I fell to wondering greatly at her silence. By and by, what with thinking of home and of her and chafing at her neglect, I found myself in a very pretty state of discontentment. It was just then that I heard a voice behind me, and turning round saw Nicol approaching in company with another. The stranger was a man of remarkable appearance. He was scarcely the middle height, but his breadth across the shoulders was so great that he seemed almost dwarfish. He had arms of extraordinary length, so long that they reached almost to his knees, like the Tartars in Muscovy that I have read of. His square, weather-beaten face was filled with much good humour, and the two eyes which looked out from beneath his shaggy brows were clear and shrewd. "This is Maister Silas Steen o’ the brig Seamaw," said Nicol, making an introduction, "whae has come from Scotland this morning, and says he has letters wi’ him for you." Having delivered himself, my servant retreated, and left the newcomer alone with me. "You’ll be Master John Burnet of Barns?" said he, looking at me sharply. "The same, at your service," said I. "It’s just a bit letter for you," and he dived into his pocket and produced a packet.