After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed, and said to her, So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I’m bad enough for you Ah! but your father won’t make one half the question about it You have—he’ll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald, Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and bookwork, Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow, Though he allows, but he’ll think it was all for your sake, Elspie, Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing. But I had thought in Scotland you didn’t care for this folly. How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands! This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England. You do not all of you feel these fancies. No, she answered. And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving. No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting, No, nor do _I_, dear Philip, I don’t myself feel always As I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately, Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter, Out in America there, in somebody’s life of Pizarro; Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards; only weaker; And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches, All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish. No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were, Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up from old time Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life of Bygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nations And must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches. No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow; Yes, and I feel the life-juices of all the world and the ages, Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer: You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me. No, don’t smile, Philip, now, so scornfully! While you look so Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling, Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river; And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may be from elsewhere, Strong contemptuous resolve; I forget, and I bound as across it. But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous river. Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over. Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burden. O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light as a feather? But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too. O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us, Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us; There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it, Love, he said, and kissed her.— But I will read your books, though, Said she: you’ll leave me some, Philip?