So they went to the other end of the barn, where the piano was; and there was a good deal of singing there, and laughing and joking—among this little party of three. And Meenie sang too—on condition (woman-like) that Ronald would light his pipe. Little Maggie scarcely knew which to admire the more—this beautiful and graceful young lady, who was so complaisant and friendly and kind, or her own brother, who was so handsome and manly and modest, and yet could do everything in the world. Nor could there have been any sinister doubt in that wish of hers that these three should always be together as they were then; how was she to know that this was the last evening on which Meenie Douglas and Ronald were to meet on these all too friendly terms? *CHAPTER XI.* *A REVELATION.* Early the next morning, when as yet the sunrise was still widening up and over the loch, and the faint tinge of red had not quite left the higher slopes of Clebrig, Ronald had already finished his breakfast, and was in his own small room, smoking the customary pipe, and idly—and with some curious kind of whimsical amusement in his brain—turning over the loose sheets of scribbled verses. And that was a very ethereal and imaginary Meenie he found there—a Meenie of lonely hillside wanderings—a Meenie of daydreams and visions: not the actual, light-hearted, shrewd-headed Meenie of the evening before, who was so merry after the children had gone, and so content with the little supper-party of three, and would have him smoke his pipe without regard to her pretty silk dress. This Meenie on paper was rather a wistful, visionary, distant creature; whereas the Meenie of the previous evening was altogether good-humoured and laughing, with the quaintest mother-ways in the management of the children, and always a light of kindness shining in her clear Highland eyes. He would have to write something to portray Meenie (to himself) in this more friendly and actual character. He could do it easily enough, he knew. There never was any lack of rhymes when Meenie was the occasion. At other things he had to labour—frequently, indeed, until, reflecting that this was not his business, he would fling the scrawl into the fire, and drive it into the peats with his heel, and go away with much content. But when Meenie was in his head, everything came readily enough; all the world around seemed full of beautiful things to compare with her; the birds were singing of her; the mountains were there to guard her; the burn, as it whispered through the rushes, or danced over the open bed of pebbles, had but the one continual murmur of Meenie’s name. Verses? he could have written them by the score—and laughed at them, and burned them, too. Suddenly the little Maggie appeared. ’Ronald,’ she said, ’the Doctor’s come home.’ ’What—at this time in the morning?’ he said turning to her.