_O Glasgow town, how little you know_ _That Meenie has wandered in_ _To the very heart of your darkened streets,_ _Through all the bustle and din._ _A Sutherland blossom shining fair_ _Amid all your dismal haze,_ _Forfeiting the breath of the summer hills,_ _And the blue of the northern days._ _From Dixon’s fire-wreaths to Rollox stalk,_ _Blow, south wind, and clear the sky,_ _Till she think of Ben Clebrig’s sunny slopes,_ _Where the basking red-deer lie._ _Blow, south wind, and show her a glimpse of blue_ _Through the pall of dusky brown;_ _And see that you guard her and tend her well,_ _You, fortunate Glasgow town!_ But then—but then—that strange, impossible time—during which there would be no Meenie visible anywhere along the mountain roads; and Mudal Water would go by unheeded; and there would be no careless, clear-singing girl’s voice along Loch Naver’s shores—that strange time would surely come to an end, and he could look forward and see how the ending of it would be: _The clouds lay heavy on Clebrig’s crest,_ _For days and weeks together;_ _The shepherds along Strath-Terry’s side_ _Cursed at the rainy weather;_ _They scarce could get a favouring day_ _For the burning of the heather._ _When sudden the clouds were rent in twain_ _And the hill laughed out to the sun;_ _And the hinds stole up, with wondering eyes,_ _To the far slopes yellow and dun;_ _And the birds were singing in every bush_ _As at spring anew begun,_ _O Clebrig, what is it that makes you glad,_ _And whither is gone your frown?_ _Are you looking afar into the south,_ _The long, wide strath adown?_ _And see you that Meenie is coming back—_ _Love Meenie, from Glasgow town!_ He laughed. Not yet was Love Meenie taken away from them all. And if in the unknown future the Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay were to carry her off and make a great lady of her, and take her to see strange places, and perhaps marry her to some noble person, at least in the meantime Ben Clebrig and Ben Loyal and the wide straths between knew that they still held in the mighty hollow of their hand this sweet flower of Sutherlandshire, and that the world and the skies and the woods and lakes seemed fairer because of her presence. And as regarded himself, and his relations with her? Well, what must be must. Only he hoped—and there was surely no great vanity nor self-love nor jealousy in so modest a hope—that the change of her manner towards him was due to the counsels of her mother rather than to anything he had unwittingly said or done. Rose Meenie—Love Meenie—he had called her in verses; but always he had been most respectful to herself; and he could not believe that she thought him capable of doing anything to offend her. *CHAPTER XIII.* *A NEW ARRIVAL.*