’Ally, Ally,’ he whispered—and why his first words were jealous ones he could not have told you—’Ally, tell me, did a man ever kiss you before?’ ’Never in all my life!’ said Alison, staring straight out before her into the dark, with wonder-struck eyes. And lo! that which had been a reproach at The Mains became the crowning glory of her life, and at that Pygmalion-like touch of a lover’s lips, the soul of Alison awoke to passion, as the marble awoke to life. But—such is the relentlessness of the prose of life—Jean must choose this interesting moment in which to open the door above them and let a light down the shaft of the stair. The pair started asunder, Herries stammered good-night, and Alison walked up the dirty steps of that Edinburgh common stair as though they were the rungs of a golden ladder leading straight to heaven. *CHAPTER XXVI.* It might generally be supposed that one great emotion of the mastering kind possesses the soul to the temporary exclusion of all others. But this is not the case; for it is, rather, when the soul is awake—quivering to the touch of some novel experience—that its sensitiveness to new impressions is the greatest, and its capacity for seeing all things and understanding all things is at the fullest stretch. Thus, when Alison walked into Nancy’s room that night, full of her own bliss, her heart gave only one bounding throb the more when she found a stranger there, and realised that at last she beheld the longed-for visitor, stood in the presence of genius, and touched the hand of Robert Burns. The familiar room wore its cosiest and most seductive aspect—the curtains drawn, and fire- and candle-light shining on the wall. The figure, which, at Nancy’s motion, rose to meet Alison, seemed to her almost colossal; but only so, because her mind’s-eye was filled with the slenderer proportions of a very different figure. The man was indeed of peasant build, of a goodly height, but heavy and thick-set, dressed decently and yeoman-wise, ’like a farmer to dine with the laird.’ As he bent towards her the full-blooded, warm-hued, powerful face, she became conscious of his eyes, black as night, with their fringe of shadow-casting lashes—commanding and compelling eyes, almost surcharged with brilliance. Nancy was speaking, lightly, gracefully. ’I told you of my song-bird,’ said she to the poet; ’here she is. She’ll warble your lays with the very "wood-note wild" you are always asking for. Ally, love, welcome home! We were waiting for you. Run, child, and take off your things, and come and sing. Must she not, Sylvander?’ The poet bowed. It could not be said that his gestures were clumsy, for the man had ever a natural dignity; but they had the air of indifferently controlled strength, which spoke the peasant struggling with the conventions of the parlour. His great, black glance covered Alison; half-wondering and half-shrinking, she felt it search her.