him—well, now's his chance.'

CHAPTER II.

CONFESSIONS.

It was but another instance of the curiously magnetic influence of this man's personality that she instantly and unhesitatingly assumed that what he wrote must be of value. Now every second human being, as well she knew, writes verses at one period of his life, and these are mostly trash; and remain discreetly hidden, or are mercifully burned. But what Ronald wrote, she was already certain, must be characteristic of himself, and have interest and definite worth; and what better could she do than get hold of some of these things, and have them introduced to the public, perhaps with some little preliminary encomium written by a friendly hand? She had heard from the little Maggie that Ronald had never sent any of his writings to the newspapers; might not this be a service? She could not offer him a sovereign because he happened to be in the boat when she caught her first salmon; but fame—the appeal to the wide-reading public—the glory of print? Nay, might they not be of some commercial value also? She knew but little of the customs of the Chicago journals, but she guessed that a roundabout hint conveyed to Mr. John C. Huysen would not be without effect. And what were the subjects, she asked herself, that Ronald wrote about? In praise of deerstalking, for one thing, and mountain-climbing, and out-of-door life, she felt assured: you could see it in his gait and in his look; you could hear it in his laugh and his singing as he went along the road. Politics, perhaps—if sarcastic verses were in his way; for there was a sharp savour running through his talk; and he took abundant interest in public affairs. Or perhaps he would be for recording the charms of some rustic maiden—some 'Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane'—some blue-eyed and rather silent and uninteresting young person, living alone in a glen, and tending cattle or hanging out things to dry on a hedge? Well, even a song would be something. The Chicago Citizen might not pay very much for it, but the great and generous public might take kindly to it; and if Jack Huysen did not say something friendly about it, then she would know the reason why.

But the stiffest struggle Miss Carry ever had with any salmon was mere child's play compared with the fight she had with Ronald himself over this matter. At first he was exceedingly angry that she should have been told; but then he laughed, and said to her that there were plenty of folk in Scotland as elsewhere who wrote idle verses, but that they had the common sense to say nothing about it. If she wanted a memento of her stay in the Highlands to take back with her to America, he would give her her choice of the deer-skins he had in the shed; that would be appropriate, and she was welcome to the best of them; but as for scribblings and nonsense of that kind—no, no. On the other hand she was just as persistent, and treated him to a little gentle raillery, wondering that he had not yet outgrown the years of shyness; and finally, when everything else had failed, putting her request as a grace and courtesy to be granted to an American stranger. This was hardly fair; but she was very anxious about the matter; and she knew that her demand was founded far less on mere curiosity than on an honest desire to do him a service.

Of course he yielded; and a terrible time he had of it the night he set about selecting something to show to her. For how could she understand the circumstances in which these random things were written—these idle fancies of a summer morning—these careless love songs—these rhymed epistles in which the practical common sense and shrewd advice were much more conspicuous than any graces of art? And then again so many of them were about Meenie; and these were forbidden; the praise of Meenie—even when it was the birds and the roses and the foxgloves and the summer rills that sang of her—was not for alien eyes. But at last he lit upon some verses supposed to convey the sentiments of certain exiles met together on New Year's night in Nova Scotia; and he thought it was a simple kind of thing; at all events it would get him out of a grievous difficulty. So—for the lines had been written many a day ago, and came upon him now with a new aspect—he altered a phrase here or there, by way of passing the time; and finally he made a fair copy. The next morning, being a Sunday, he espied Miss Carry walking down towards the river; and he overtook her and gave her this little piece to redeem his pledge.

'It's not worth much,' said he, 'but you'll understand what it is about. Burn it when you've read it—that's all I ask of ye——' Then on he went, glad not to be cross-questioned, the faithful Harry trotting at his heels.

So she sat down on the stone parapet of the little bridge—on this hushed, still, shining morning that was quite summer-like in its calm—and opened the paper with not a little curiosity. And well enough she understood the meaning of the little piece: she knew that the Mackays[#] used to live about here; and was not Strath-Naver but a few miles off; and this the very Mudal river running underneath the bridge on which she was sitting? But here are the verses she read—and he had entitled them

[#] Pronounced Mackise, with the accent on the second syllable.

ACROSS THE SEA.