and at once you have before you golden banks, and meadows, and June skies, and all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland has become for me such a storehouse of beautiful things—in imagination—that I am almost afraid to return to it, in case the reality might disappoint me. No, no, it could not disappoint me: I treasure every inch of the sacred soil: but sometimes I wonder if you will recognise the magic and witchery of hill and glen. As for me, there is naught else I fear now; there are no human ties I shall have to take up again; I shall not have to mourn the ’Bourocks o’ Bargeny.’" "What is that, grandfather?" "If you had been brought up in Scotland, Maisrie, you would know what the bigging o’ bourocks is among children—play-houses in the sand. But sometimes the word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is in the title of Hugh Ainslie’s poem. That poem is one that I shall be proud to give a place to in my collection," he continued, with an air of importance. "Hugh Ainslie is no more with us; but his countrymen, whether in America or at home, are not likely to forget the ’Bourocks o’ Bargeny.’" "Can you remember it, grandfather?" "Can I not?" said he; and therewith he repeated the lines, never faltering once for a phrase— "I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair ’Mang the bourocks o’ Bargeny; I’ve found ye on the banks o’ Ayr, But sair ye’re altered, Jeanie. I left ye like the wanton lamb That plays ’mang Hadyed’s heather; I’ve found ye noo a sober dame— A wife and eke a mither. I left ye ’mang the leaves sae green In rustic weed befittin’; I’ve found ye buskit like a queen, In painted chaumer sittin’. Ye’re fairer, statelier, I can see, Ye’re wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie; But oh! I’d rather met wi’ thee ’Mang the bourocks of Bargeny!" "It’s very sad, grandfather," she said, wistfully. "The way of the world—the way of the world," said he; and observing that she had finished and was waiting for him, he forthwith rose and went to the mantelpiece for his pipe. "There’s many a true story of that kind. Well, Maisrie, you’ll just get your violin, and we’ll have the ’Broom o’ the Cowdenknowes?’" And while she went to fetch the violin, and as he cut his tobacco, he sang in a quavering voice— "O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, The broom o’ the Cowdenknowes, I wish I were at hame again Where the broom sae sweetly grows!" And then he went to the window, to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet, while Maisrie, seated further back in the shadow of the room, played for him the well-known air. Did she guess—and fear—that she might have an audience of more than one? At all events her doubts were soon resolved: when she had ceased, and after a second or so of silence, there came another sound into the prevailing hush—it was one of the Songs without Words, and it was being played with considerable delicacy and charm.