Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured by the Tutor. And he remembered how he had fancied the lad from the first; and Then, too, the old man’s eye was much more for inner than outer, And the natural tune of his heart without misgiving Went to the noble words of that grand song of the Lowlands, _Rank is the guinea stamp, but the man’s a man for a’ that_. Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it now, but insisted Philip should go to his books; if he chose, he might write; if after Chose to return, might come; he truly believed him honest. But a year must elapse, and many things might happen. Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, and blessed them: Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at the doorway Standing with you, and telling the young man where he would find us, I did not think he would one day be asking me here to surrender What is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich. IX _Arva, beata Petamus arva!_ So on the morrow’s morrow, with Term-time dread returning, Philip returned to his books, and read, and remained at Oxford, All the Christmas and Easter remained and read at Oxford. Great was wonder in College when postman showed to butler Letters addressed to David Mackaye, at Tober-na-vuolich, Letter on letter, at least one a week, one every Sunday: Great at that Highland post was wonder too and conjecture, When the postman showed letters to wife, and wife to the lassies, And the lassies declared they couldn’t be really to David; Yes, they could see inside a paper with E. upon it. Great was surmise in College at breakfast, wine, and supper, Keen the conjecture and joke; but Adam kept the secret, Adam the secret kept, and Philip read like fury. This is a letter written by Philip at Christmas to Adam. There may be beings, perhaps, whose vocation it is to be idle, Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be: Only let each man seek to be that for which nature meant him. If you were meant to plough, Lord Marquis, out with you, and do it; If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold, I will feed you. If you were born for a groom, and you seem, by your dress, to believe so, Do it like a man, Sir George, for pay, in a livery stable; Yes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the corner, Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the eighth commandment. Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and be lovely; Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious ware, who Might be plain women, and can be by no possibility better! —Ye unhappy statuettes, and miserable trinkets, Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under glass cases, Come, in God’s name, come down! the very French clock by you Puts you to shame with ticking; the fire-irons deride you. You, young girl, who have had such advantages, learnt so quickly, Can you not teach? O yes, and she likes Sunday-school extremely,