And so their lovers’ talk went on, until it was time for Meenie to think of returning home. But just beyond these Botanic Gardens, and down in a secluded nook by the side of the river, there is a little spring that is variously known as the Three-Tree Well and the Pear-Tree Well. It is a limpid little stream, running into the Kelvin; it rises in a tiny cavern and flows for a few yards through a cleft in the rocks. Now these rocks, underneath the overarching trees, have been worn quite smooth (except where they are scored with names) by the footsteps of generation after generation of lovers who, in obedience to an old and fond custom, have come hither to plight their troth while joining hands over the brooklet. Properly the two sweethearts, each standing on one side, ought to join their hands on a Bible as they vow their vows, and thereafter should break a sixpence in twain, each carrying away the half; but these minor points are not necessary to the efficacy of this probably pagan rite. And so—supposing that Ronald had heard of this place of sacred pilgrimage, and had indeed discovered its whereabouts in his rambles around Glasgow—and supposing him to have got a friendly under-gardener to unlock a gate in the western palisades of the Gardens—and then, if he were to ask Meenie to step down to the river-side and walk along to the hallowed well? And yet he made of it no solemn ceremony; the morning was bright and clear around them; and Meenie was rather inclined to smile at the curious old custom. But she went through it nevertheless; and then he slept across the rill again; and said he— ’There’s but this remaining now, Meenie darling—"Ae fond kiss and then we sever."’ She stepped back in affright. ’Ronald, not with that song on your lips! Don’t you remember what it goes on to say?’ ’Well, I don’t,’ he answered good-naturedly; for he had quoted the phrase at random. ’Why, don’t you remember?— _"Had we never loved sae kindly,_ _Had we never loved sae blindly,_ _Never met—or never parted,_ _We had ne’er been broken-hearted."_ ’My good-hearted lass,’ said he, interlinking his arm with hers, ’ye must not be superstitious. What’s in a song? There’ll be no severance betwixt you and me—the Pear-Tree Well has settled that.’ ’And that is not at all superstition?’ said she, looking up with a smile—until she suddenly found her blushing face overshadowed. *CHAPTER VIII.* *THE COMING OF TROUBLES.*