Mrs. Burns regarded her eldest son with anxious eyes. “Aye, I fear, laddie, ye are too intent on your rhymin’,” she said solicitously. His abstracted moods, his melancholy moroseness had filled her loving heart with gloomy forebodings. “Sae much livin’ in the clouds, my son, is unhealthful, an’ does but make ye moody an’ uncertain in temper. Is it worth while to wreck body, mind an’ soul to gain a little fame an’ fortune, which, alas, seem so very far off?” she asked, putting her hand lovingly on his bowed head.
“Ye dinna’ understand, mither,” he replied sadly. “I love to write. ’Tis my very life; thought flows unbidden from my brain.” He rose to his feet and pointing to the stream, which could be faintly seen at the foot of the hill, continued with mournful finality, “Why, mother, I might as well try to stop the waters of yonder rushin’ brook as to attempt to smother the poetic fancies that cry for utterance. Nay, ’tis too late noo to dissuade me from my purpose,” and he turned and watched the setting sun slowly sink behind the distant hills in a flood of golden splendor.
Souter noticed with uneasiness the gloom which had settled upon them all as the result of his careless words. Why was he such a thoughtless fool? Ah, well, he would make them forget their troubles.
“Och, Mistress Burns,” he cried, smacking his lips with apparent relish, “’tis a mighty fine cup of tea, a perfectly grand cup. It fair cheers the heart of mon,” and he drained it to the bottom.
“An’ where do ye think the oatcakes were made, Souter?” asked Mary brightly.
“Weel, I’m no’ a good hand at guessin’,” he answered, thoughtfully scratching his head; “but by their taste an’ sweetness, I should say that Mistress Burns made them hersel’.”
The good dame regarded him witheringly. “I didna’ ken that oatcakes were sweet, Souter,” she retorted.
Mary laughed softly at his discomfiture. “Weel, they come frae my sister in Applecross.”
“Applecross!” he repeated, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Noo I mind they did have the Highland flavor, for true.”