“Heaven bless ye!” responded Robert gratefully.
“Mr. Burns, if you——” began Mr. Mackenzie, then he hesitated a moment, but finally after a moment’s thought continued his sentence—“if you will but accept a loan,” and his hand sought his pocket, but Robert shook his head decidedly.
“No, no, Mr. Mackenzie,” he said proudly; “I canna’ accept it, thank ye.”
Mackenzie sighed. “Oh, you sensitive people,” he remarked, “pride and poverty.”
“Ye see,” explained Robert gratefully, “I expect a few pounds from the sale of a poem, which will relieve my temporary embarrassment, and if the commissioners grant me full salary, I can start for the seaside, where I may regain my lost health.” He passed his hand wearily over his brow, which began to pain him, for the excitement had worn him out. “But I fear that has flown from me forever, that the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among ye no mair.”
“Nonsense!” replied Mackenzie brightly, putting his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder. “You will live for years yet, but you must take better care of this life which is so valuable to your family, to your friends and to the world.” There was deep concern in his pleasant voice and in his earnest eyes.
At that moment the street door opened and Eppy appeared dressed youthfully in white, leading by the hand none other than Souter Johnny, who was looking decidedly crestfallen and sheepish, as he vainly tried to pull down his little short kilt over his thin, bony legs, for Souter was at last arrayed in full kilts, much to his evident sorrow. He looked exceedingly grotesque, squeezed into the suit, which was too small even for his undersized frame.
“In the name of!—Souter Johnny, what means this?” gasped Robert in amazement.
“Canna’ a man wear the kilts without being laughed at?” answered Souter ruefully, resenting the amused look on their faces.
“Well, I must say ye look better in breeches,” observed Rob with a quizzical glance at Souter’s grotesquely thin crooked legs.