The piece was called ’A Winter Song’; and surely the man who could write in this gay fashion had an abundant life and joy and hope in his veins, and courage to face the worst bleakness of the winter, and a glad looking-forward to the coming of the spring? _Keen blows the wind upon Clebrig’s side,_ _And the snow lies thick on the heather;_ _And the shivering hinds are glad to hide_ _Away from the winter weather._ _Chorus: But soon the birds will begin to sing,_ _And we will sing too, my dear,_ _To give good welcoming to the spring_ _In the primrose time o’ the year!_ _Hark how the black lake, torn and tost,_ _Thunders along its shores;_ _And the burn is hard in the grip of the frost,_ _And white, snow-white are the moors._ _Chorus: But soon the birds will begin to sing, etc._ _O then the warm west winds will blow,_ _And all in the sunny weather,_ _It’s over the moorlands we will go,_ _You and I, my love, together._ _Chorus: And then the birds will begin to sing,_ _And we will sing too, my dear,_ _To give good welcoming to the spring,_ _In the primrose-time o’ the year!_ Why, surely the blood must have been dancing in his brain when he wrote that and the days white and clear around him; and life merry and hopeful enough. And now? Well, it was no gladdening thing to think of: he listlessly put away the book. And then he rose and went and got a pail of water and thrust his head into that—for he was glad to feel that this muzzy sensation was going; and thereafter he dried and brushed his hair with a little more care than usual; and put on a clean collar. Nay, he began to set the little room to rights—and his life in Highland lodges had taught him how to do that about as well as any woman could; and he tried to brighten the window panes a little, to make the place look more cheerful; and he arranged the things on the mantel-shelf in better order—with the bit of white heather in the middle. Then he came to his briar-root pipe; and paused. He took it up, hesitating. ’Yes, my friend, you must go too,’ he said, with firm lips; and he deliberately broke it, and tossed the fragments into the grate. And then he remembered that it was nearly three o’clock, and as he feared that Kate Menzies might send some one of her friends to fetch him, or even come for him herself, he put on his cap, and took a stick in his hand, and went out. In half an hour or so he had left the city behind him and was lost in that melancholy half-country that lies around it on the north; but he cared little now how the landscape looked; he was wondering what had brought Meenie to Glasgow town, and whether she had seen him, and what she had heard of him. And at Inver-Mudal too? Well, they might think the worst of him there if they chose. But had Meenie heard?