'That's an odd way to look at it. Who ever heard of a tree being lonely? You have a great many queer fancies, but they won't flourish here. Glasgow is given up to business; it has no time for foolish fancies.'
Gladys gravely nodded.
'Papa told me so. Is it very far to Ayrshire, Uncle Abel?'
The old man gave a quick start.
'To Ayrshire! What makes you ask the question? What has put such a thing into your head?'
'Papa spoke of it so often, of that beautiful village where you and he were born. He was so sorry I could not pronounce it right, Mauchline.'
As that sweet voice, with its pretty English accent, uttered the familiar name, again a strange thrill visited the old man's withered heart.
'No, you don't say it right. But I wonder that he spoke of it so much; we were poor enough there, herd boys in the fields. We couldn't well have a humbler origin, eh?'
'But it was a beautiful life—papa said so—among the fields and trees, listening to the birds—the same songs Burns used to hear. I seem to know every step of the way, all the fields in Mossgiel, and every tree in the woods of Ballochmyle. Just before he died, he tried to sing,—oh, it was so painful to hear his dear, trembling voice,—and it was "The Bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle." If it is not very far, will you take me one day, when you have time, Uncle Abel, to see Mauchline and Mossgiel and Ballochmyle?'
She looked at him fearlessly as she made her request, and her courage pleased him.