“Oh, Mary, my love, my love!” he whispered brokenly. “Come to me before ye die.” And all that morning he had watched it expand and stretch out its petals to its utmost, wafting its perfume up into his grateful nostrils, till a peace such as had not visited his heart for many years, smoothed out the lines of suffering from his brow and softened the hard light in his deepened eyes. A verse of a poem he had written a few years before flashed across his memory:
“Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And like a bird sang o’ its luve,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine;
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
But my fausse luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.”
Jean, coming into the room a little later, found him there, his head resting on his hands, a smile of contented calm upon his face, which now seemed like the face of the youth she had known in Mauchline, and the sight thrilled her strangely and brought a spasm of pain to her overcharged heart.