The door was opened, and there was the young widow, smiling and jocund as the morn, and very smartly attired; and alongside of her was a servant-lass bearing a small tray, on which were a tumbler, a pint bottle of champagne, and some angostura bitters. ’Bless me, woman,’ he said, ’I was wondering where I was. And what’s this now?—do ye want to make a drunkard o’ me?’ ’Not I,’ said Kate Menzies blithely, ’I want to make a man o’ ye. Ye’ll just take a glass o’ this, Ronald, my lad; and then ye’ll get up and come down to breakfast; for we’re going to have a splendid drive. The weather’s as bright and clear as a new shilling; and I’ve been up since seven o’clock, and I’m free for the day now. Here ye are, lad; this’ll put some life into ye.’ She shook a few drops of bitters into the tumbler, and then poured out a foaming measure of the amber-coloured wine, and offered it to him. He refused to take it. ’I canna look at it, lass. There was too much o’ that going last night.’ ’And the very reason you should take a glass now!’ she said. ’Well, I’ll leave it on the mantelpiece, and ye can take it when ye get up. Make haste, Ronald, lad; it’s a pity to lose so fine a morning.’ When they had left, he dressed as rapidly as possible, and went down. Breakfast was awaiting him—though it did not tempt him much. And then, by and by, the smart dog-cart was at the door; and a hamper was put in; and Kate Menzies got up and took the reins. There was no sick-and-sorriness about her at all events. She was radiant and laughing and saucy; she wore a driving-coat fastened at the neck by a horse-shoe brooch of brilliants, and a white straw hat with a wide-sweeping jet-black ostrich feather. It was clear that the tavern was a paying concern. ’And why will ye aye sit behind, Mr. Strang?’ old mother Paterson whined, as she made herself comfortable in front. ’I am sure Katie would rather have ye here than an auld wife like me. Ye could talk to her ever so much better.’ ’That would be a way to go driving through Glasgow town,’ he said, as he swung himself up on the back seat; ’a man in front and a woman behind! Never you fear; there can be plenty of talking done as it is.’ But as they drove away through the city—and even Glasgow looked quite bright and cheerful on this sunny morning, and there was a stirring of cool air that was grateful enough to his throbbing temples—it appeared that the buxom widow wanted to have most of the talking to herself. She was very merry; and laughed at his penitential scorn of himself; and was for spurring him on to further poetical efforts.