"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to have written the book!" "What matters it who compiles the pages?—that is nothing at all; that is in a measure mechanical. I am only anxious that it should be well done, with tact, and discretion, and modesty," he continued—and with such obvious sincerity that Vincent was more than ever perplexed. "For the sake of old Scotland I would willingly give my help for nothing—a little guidance here and there—a few biographical facts—even an amended line. But after all the men must speak for themselves; and well they will speak, if the public will but remember that these verses have for the most part been thought of during the busy rush of a commercial life, and written down in a chance evening hour. It will be a message across the sea, to show that Scotland’s sons have not forgotten her. MacGregor Crerar—Donald Ramsay—Hugh Ainslie—Evan MacColl—Andrew Wanless—I wonder if they have got Wanless’s address to the robin that was sent to him from Scotland—you remember, Maisrie? ’There’s mair than you, my bonnie bird, Hae crossed the raging main, Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days, They’ll never see again. Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me, Unmindfu’ o’ our ills; And let us think we’re ance again ’Mang our ain heather hills!’ The book will be welcomed by many a proud heart, and with moist eyes, when it gets away up among the glens, to be read by the fireside and repeated at the plough; and I think, Maisrie, when you and I take a walk along Princes-street in Edinburgh we may see more than one or two copies in the bookseller’s windows. Then I hope _Blackwood_ will have a friendly word for it; and I am sure Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give it a hearty greeting in the _Weekly Chronicle_." "But, grandfather," said Maisrie, almost piteously, "surely you forget that you undertook to bring out this book yourself!" "Yes, yes," said he, with perfect good humour. "But ’the best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley.’ And I do not grudge to some other what might have been mine—I mean the association of one’s name with such a band of true and loyal Scotchmen. No; I do not grudge it; on the contrary I am prepared to give the volume the most generous welcome in my power; it is not for a brother Scot to find fault in such a case, or to be niggard of his praise. I hope we are capable of showing to the world that ’we’re a’ John Thampson’s bairns.’" Maisrie was growing desperate. Her grandfather would not understand; and how was she to speak plain—with Vincent listening to every word? And yet she knew that now he was aware of all the circumstances; concealment was impossible; and so she forced herself to utterance.