"The book, Maisrie—the book—are you getting on?—no delay—no delay—in case someone should interfere. Ye’ve got Shairp in, haven’t ye?—the burn of Quair—up yonder—above the Minch Moor— ’I heard the cushies croon, Through the gowden afternoon, And Quair burn singin’ doon to the vale o’ Tweed.’ Well do I know the very spot where he must have written those verses. Yes, yes; well I remember it," he continued, more absently. "But I have had my last look. I will see it no more—no more. You, Maisrie, you will go there—your young husband will take you there—" "Grandfather, we will all go there together!" said Maisrie, piteously. "And both of you," the old man went on, paying no attention to her, for he was apparently gazing at some distant thing, "both of you are young, and light of step—and light of heart, which is still better—well, well, my lass, perhaps not so light of heart as might be at your years—but all that will change for you—and I think when you are up at the burn of Quair—you will find it—in your mind—to cross the Minch Moor to Yarrow Water. Newark Castle you will see—then you will turn to go down the Yarrow Vale—but not with any sad heart, Maisrie—I forbid ye that—it’s a beautiful place, Yarrow, though it had its tragedies and sorrows in the olden time—and you—you are young—you have life before you—and I tell ye it is with a light and glad heart you must go down the Yarrow Vale. Why, lass, you’ll come to Mount Benger—you’ll come to Dryhope Tower—you’ll come to Altrive—and St. Mary’s Loch—and the Loch o’ the Lows—and Chapel-hope—but mind ye now—if it’s bad weather—ye’re not to come running away, and altogether mistaking the place—ye’ll just stop somewhere in the neighbourhood until it clears." And then he added, in a wistful kind of way: "I once had thoughts—of taking ye there myself, Maisrie." "And so you will, grandfather!" she pleaded. "No more—no more," he said, as if not heeding her. "And why should a young life be clouded?—the two of them—they’ll be fine company for each other—when they’re wandering—along by the side of Yarrow Water." But here he recalled himself; and would have Maisrie sit down again to that list; in order that the book might be pushed rapidly forward. It was on this same evening that Dr. Lenzie, on arriving to pay his accustomed visit, went into the little parlour and sent for Vincent. Vincent came downstairs. "Do ye see that?" said he, holding out a book that was in his hand. Vincent took the volume from him and glanced at the title—Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by A. G. Murdoch. He was not in the least astonished—but he was angry and indignant. "Very well," said he, "what of it? Do you mean to say you are going to vex an old man, who may be on his death-bed, by bringing charges of plagiarism against him? I dare say Mr. Bethune never saw the book, or, if he has seen it, he has forgotten it."