Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself; the needle
Which in the shaken compass flew hither and thither, at last, long
Quivering, poises to north. I think so. But I am cautious:
More, at least, than I was in the old silly days when I left you.
Not at the bothie now; at the changehouse in the clachan;[11]
Why I delay my letter is more than I can tell you.
There was another scrap, without or date or comment,
Dotted over with various observations, as follows:
Only think, I had danced with her twice, and did not remember.
I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one, who dreaming