He had no word for Maisrie on her return to the room. When the three of them went out into the street, he forsook his usual post by her side, and walked with her grandfather, to whom he talked exclusively. And of course, as his questions were all about the projected compilation of ballads, and as old George Bethune was always keenly enthusiastic about any new undertaking, there was no stint to their conversation. Maisrie walked on in silence and unheeded. When they reached the restaurant, and as they were taking their seats at the little table, she glanced at the young man; but his eyes did not happen to meet hers. And there was no place for her in their talk. "No," old George Bethune was saying—and with considerable animation, for he appeared to have been looking over some of the ballads during the day, and his mind was still fired by the recollection of them, "I think they are beyond the reach of illustration, even if there should be an _édition de luxe_. I have considered your suggestion more than once; but I fear the drawing would in almost every instance be an anticlimax to the power and simplicity and pathos of the printed page. No picture could be as vivid and clear and striking as the verses themselves: why, just think of such lines as these— ’’Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blowing snaw’s inclemencie; ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad i’ the black velvet, And I myself in cramoisie.’ What picture could better that? What picture could do anything but weaken it? You remember in ’Edom o’ Gordon’ how the young maiden is lowered from the burning tower only to be slain by Edom o’ Gordon’s spear— ’They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets, And tow’d her owre the wa’; But on the point o’ Gordon’s spear She gat a deadly fa’. O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, And cherry were her cheeks, And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon the red blood dreeps. Then wi’ his spear he turned her owre; O but her face was wan! He said, "Ye are the first that e’er I wish’d alive again." He turned her owre and owre again, O but her skin was white! "I might hae spared that bonnie face To hae been some man’s delight. "Busk and boun, my merry men a’, For ill dooms I do guess;— I cannot look on that bonnie face As it lies on the grass,"’— What illustration could improve on that?—why, it burns clear as flame! Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in ’the bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray’——"