"Yes, yes," said the old man, quickly, "that is quite right—that is so—for I must pay off Thompson, you know, I must pay off Thompson. Thompson is a good fellow—and an honest Scot—but he used to talk a little. Let him do this—for Maisrie’s sake—afterwards—afterwards—when I am well and strong again—I will square up accounts with him. Oh, yes, very easily," he continued; and now he began to whisper in a mysterious manner. "Listen, now—I have a little scheme in mind—not a word to anybody—there might be some one quick to snatch it up. It is a volume I have in mind—a volume on the living poets of Scotland—think of that, now—a splendid subject, surely!—the voice of the people—everyday sorrows and joys—the minstrelsy of a whole race. There was the American book—but something went wrong—I did not blame any one—and I was glad it was published—Carmichael let me review it—yes, yes, there may be a chance for me yet—I may do something yet—for auld Scotland’s sake! I have been looking into the _domus exilis Plutonia_—the doors have been wide open—but still there may be a chance—there is some fire still burning within. But my memory is not what it was," he went on, in a confused, perplexed way. "I once had a good memory—an excellent memory—but now things escape me. Yesterday—I think it was yesterday—I could not tell whether Bob Tennant was still with us—and his verses to Allander Water have all gone from me—all but a phrase—’How sweet to roam by Allander’—’How sweet to roam by Allander’—no, my head is not so clear as it ought to be——" "No, of course not," said Vincent, in a soothing sort of way. "How could you expect it, with this illness? But these things will all come back. And I’m going to help you as much as I can. When I was in New York I heard your friend, Hugh Anstruther, deliver a speech about those living Scotch poets, and he seemed to be well acquainted with them; I will write to him for any information you may want. So now—now that is all settled; and I would try to rest for a while, if I were you: that is the main thing—the immediate thing." But the old man went on without heeding him, muttering to himself, as it were: "Chambers’s Journal—perhaps as far back as thirty years since—there’s one verse has rung in my ears all this time—but the rest is all blank—and the name of the writer forgotten, if it ever was published ... ’’Tis by Westray that she wanders ... ’Tis by Westray that she strays ... O waft me, Heavens, to Westray ... in the spring of the young days!’ ... No, no, it cannot be Westray—Westray is too far north—Westray?—Yet it sounds right ... ’’Tis by Westray that she wanders ... ’tis by Westray that she strays—’"