Yes; and it was in the coming spring-time that he was to try for the certificate in forestry; and thereafter—if he were so fortunate as to get that—he might set forth on the path that the Americans had so confidently sketched out for him—the path that was now to lead him to Meenie, as the final crown and prize. ’You may find me a gray-haired woman, Ronald,’ she had said, ’but you will find me a single woman.’ But still he was young in years; and there was hope and courage in his veins; and what if he were to win to her, after all, before there was a single streak of middle age in the beautiful and abundant brown tresses? Then, again, on the evening before the morning on which he was to meet her in the Botanic Gardens, he undid the package containing that anthology of verse devoted to Meenie; and began to turn the pieces over, wondering which, or if any of them, would please her, if he took them to her. But this was rather a visionary Meenie he found in these verses; not the real and actual Meenie who had sate beside him on a bench in the West End Park, and placed her hand in his, and pledged her life to him, while the beautiful, tear-filled eyes sought his so bravely. And could he not write something about this actual Meenie; and about Glasgow; and the wonder she had brought into the great, prosaic city? He tried his hand at it, anyway, for a little while: _The dim red fires of yonder gleaming forge_ _Now dwell triumphant on the brow of night;_ _A thousand chimneys blackest smoke disgorge,_ _Repelling from the world the stars’ pale light:_ _A little taper shines adown the street,_ _From out her casement where she lingers still_ _To listen to the sound of passing feet,_ _That all the night with leaden echoes fill——_ But he soon stopped. This was not like Meenie at all—Meenie, who was ever associated in his mind with flowers and birds and fair sunlight and the joy of the summer hills. He threw that spoiled sheet into the fire; and sought among the old pieces for one that he might copy out fairly for her; and this is what he eventually chose: _All on a fair May morning_ _The roses began to blow;_ _Some of them tipped with crimson,_ _Some of them tipped with snow._ _But they looked the one to the other,_ _And they looked adown the glen;_ _They looked the one to the other,_ _And they rubbed their eyes again,_ _’O there is the lark in the heavens,_ _And the mavis sings in the tree;_ _And surely this is the summer,_ _But Meenie we cannot see._ _’Surely there must be summer_ _Coming to this far clime;_ _And has Meenie, Love Meenie, forgotten,_ _Or have we mistaken the time?’_ _Then a foxglove spake to the roses:_ _’O hush you and cease your din;_ _For I’m going back to my sleeping,_ _Till Meenie brings summer in.’_ Well, it was but a trifle; but trifles are sometimes important things when seen through lovers’ eyes.