_O see you her now—she is coming anigh—_ _And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:_ _Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you’re hurrying by—_ _For she flings you a rose, in the month of roses!_ Well, that was written as long ago as last midsummer; and was Meenie still as far away from him as then, and as ignorant as ever of his mute worship of her, and of these verses that he had written about her? But he indulged in no day-dreams. Meenie was as near to him as he had any right to expect—giving him of an assured and constant friendship; and as for these passing rhymes—well, he tried to make them as worthy of her as he could, though he knew she should never see them; polishing them, in so far as they might be said to have any polish at all, in honour of her; and, what is more to the point, at once cutting out and destroying any of them that seemed to savour either of affectation or of echo. No: the rude rhymes should at least be honest and of his own invention and method; imitations he could not, even in fancy, lay at Meenie’s feet. And sometimes, it is true, a wild imagination would get hold of him—a whimsical thing, that he laughed at: supposing that life—the actual real life here at Inver-Mudal—were suddenly to become a play, a poem, a romantic tale; and that Meenie was to fall in love with him; and he to grow rich all at once; and the Stuarts of Glengask to be quite complaisant: why, then, would it not be a fine thing to bring all this collection of verses to Meenie, and say ’There, now, it is not much; but it shows you that I have been thinking of you all through these years?’ Yes, it would be a very fine thing, in a romance. But, as has been said, he was one not given to day-dreams; and he accepted the facts of life with much equanimity; and when he had written some lines about Meenie that he regarded with a little affection—as suggesting, let us say, something of the glamour of her clear Highland eyes, and the rose-sweetness of her nature, and the kindness of her heart—and when it seemed rather a pity that she should never see them—if only as a tribute to her gentleness offered by a perfectly unbiassed spectator—he quickly reminded himself that it was not his business to write verses but to trap foxes and train dogs and shoot hoodie-crows. He was not vain of his rhymes—except where Meenie’s name came in. Besides, he was a very busy person at most seasons of the year; and men, women, and children alike showed a considerable fondness for him, so that his life was full of sympathies and interests; and altogether he cannot be regarded, nor did he regard himself, as a broken-hearted or blighted being. His temperament was essentially joyous and healthy; the passing moment was enough; nothing pleased him so much as to have a grouse, or a hare, or a ptarmigan, or a startled hind appear within sure and easy range, and to say ’Well, go on. Take your life with you. Rather a pleasant day this: why shouldn’t you enjoy it as well as I?’