“It’s not the roar o’ sea or shore Wad make me longer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o’ war that’s heard afar-- It’s leaving thee, my bonny Mary.” He read the song aloud for the fourth time. As he uttered the last words he heard a laugh, and, looking up, saw his host, Felix Matier, standing at the door of the room. “Well, Neal, good morrow to you. You’re well enough in body, to judge by your voice. But if that poem’s a measure of the state of your mind you’re sick at heart. Never mind Mary, man. There’s better stuff in Burns than that. He’s no bad poet, is Rabbie Burns. Listen to this now. Here’s one I’m fond of.” He took the book out of Neal’s hand, and read him “Holy Willie’s Prayer.” His dry intonation’, his perfect rendering of the dialect of the poem, the sly twinkle of his eyes as he read, added exquisite malice to the satire. “But maybe,” he said, “I oughtn’t to be reading the like of that to you that’s the son of the Manse, though nobody would think of Holy Willie and your father together. I’m not very fond of the clergy myself, Neal, either of your Church or another. I’m much of John Milton’s opinion that new presbyter is just old priest writ large, but if there’s one kind of minister that’s not so bad as the rest it’s the New Light men of the Ulster Synod, and your father’s one of the best of them. But here’s something now that Micah Ward would approve of. Just let me read you this. I’ll have time enough before your uncle comes in. He’s not a man of books, that uncle of yours, and I’d be ashamed if he caught me reading at this hour of the day. But listen to me now.” He took up the volume of “Voltaire” and read-- L’âme des grands travaux, l’objet des nobles voeux, Que tout mortel embrasse, ou désire, ou rapelle, Qui vit dans tous les coeurs, et dont le nom sacré Dans les cours des tyrans est tout bas adoré, La Liberté! J’ai vu cette déesse altière Avec égalité répandant tous les biens, Descendre de Morat en habit de guerrière, Les mains teintes du sang des fiers Autrichiens Et de Charles le Téméraire.”