And indeed he was in no mood to turn to the scientific volumes that had already arrived from Glasgow. His heart was all afire because of the renewal of Meenie’s kindness; and the sound of her voice was still in his ears; and quite naturally he took out that blotting-pad full of songs and fragments of songs, to glance over them here and there, and see if amongst them there was any one likely to recall to him when he was far away from Inver-Mudal the subtle mystery and charm of her manner and look. And then he began to think what a stranger coming to Inver-Mudal would see in Meenie? Perhaps only the obvious things—the pretty oval of the cheek and chin, the beautiful proud mouth, the wide-apart contemplative eyes? And perhaps these would be sufficient to attract? He began to laugh with scorn at this stranger—who could only see these obvious things—who knew nothing about Meenie, and the sweetness of her ways, her shrewd common-sense and the frank courage and honour of her mind. And what if she were to turn coquette under the influence of this alien admiration? Or perhaps become sharply proud? Well, he set to work—out of a kind of whimsicality—and in time had scribbled out this— _FLOWER AUCTION._ _Who will buy pansies?_ _There are her eyes,_ _Dew-soft and tender,_ _Love in them lies._ _Who will buy roses?_ _There are her lips,_ _And there is the nectar_ _That Cupidon sips._ _Who will buy lilies?_ _There are her cheeks,_ _And there the shy blushing_ _That maidhood bespeaks._ _’Meenie, Love Meenie,_ _What must one pay?’_ _’Good stranger, the market’s_ _Not open to-day!’_ He looked at the verses again and again; and the longer he looked at them the less he liked them—he scarcely knew why. Perhaps they were a little too literary? They seemed to lack naturalness and simplicity; at all events, they were not true to Meenie; why should Meenie figure as a flippant coquette? And so he threw them away and turned to his books—not the scientific ones—to hunt out something that was like Meenie. He came near it in Tannahill, but was not quite satisfied. A verse or two in Keats held his fancy for a moment. But at last he found what he wanted in Wordsworth— _’A violet by a mossy stone_ _Half hidden from the eye;_ _—Fair as a star, when only one_ _Is shining in the sky.’_ Yes; that was liker Meenie—who ’dwelt among the untrodden ways.’ *CHAPTER V.* *A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING.*