"Well, well," he said, not heeding the interruption. "’Almost every single league,’ said Ward Beecher; and that is true. I could make a pilgrimage throughout the length and breadth of Scotland, guided by the finger of Scottish song. Indeed, I have often thought I should like, if the years were spared to me, to collect materials for a volume—a splendid and magnificent volume—on the Scotland of the Scotch songs and ballads. The words and the music are already there; and I would have the pencil add its charm; so that Scotland, in her noblest and fairest aspects, might be placed before the stranger, and might be welcomed once again by her own sons. I would have the lonely Braes o’ Balwhidder, and Rob Roy’s grave in the little churchyard on the hillside; I would have Tannahill’s Arranteenie—that is on Loch Long side, I think; and the Bonnie House o’ Airlie: ’It fell on a day, a bonnie summer’s day, When the corn grew green and fairly, That the great Argyle, wi’ a’ his men, Cam’ to plunder the bonnie house o’ Airlie.’ Then the Vale of Yarrow—well, perhaps that would have to be a figure subject—the grief-stricken maiden bending over the body of her slain lover— ’Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, O could my warmth to life restore thee!— Ye’d lie all night between my breasts; No youth lay ever there before thee.’ And Colonsay—Leyden’s Colonsay—the haunted island that mourns like a sea-shell— ’And ever as the year returns, The charm-bound sailors know the day; For sadly still the mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay.’ Gala Water—" the old man continued, in a sort of exalted rhapsody; and his eyes were absent, as if he were beholding a succession of visions. "Hunting Tower—Craigie-burn Wood—the solitude sought out by Bessie Bell and her girl companion when they fled from the plague—Ettrick Banks—the bush aboon Traquair—in short, an endless series! And where the pencil may fail, imagination must come in— ’I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee!’ It would be something to do for the sake of ’puir auld Scotland;’ and think what an enchanted wandering that would be for both Maisrie and myself. Tweed and Teviot—the silver Forth—the stately Clyde: well, perhaps she would be better pleased to gather a flower or two—a lucken-gowan or a speedwell—on ’the bonnie banks o’ Ayr.’" "But, grandfather," Maisrie Bethune interposed, "before you can begin such a book, or even think of it, you know there is something else to be done." "I suppose it would be an expensive volume to bring out?" Vincent suggested inquiringly.