"But were the old days so fine?"
"Fine enough," he replied absently; "fine enough and yet none sae fine either—there is a bit tune I'm minded of..." and he took a curious little instrument out of his pocket made of reed, shaped like a piccolo.
Then sitting upon a rock he played a tender little air with one eye glued to Rob to see how he took it, and his head cocked very drolly upon the side.
"There's the 'Brogues of Fortune' for ye," he said.
"Is it a very old tune?" asked Rob, greatly taken with the gentleman.
"As old as the hills, laddie, and that's past counting—as old as the burn and the shadows on the brae, for it's part and parcel of them all, just strung together by mysel'."
"You made it?"
"Hech! there's nothing to skirl about. I make them all day. I canna eat my dinner but my feet are dirling to a tune that has no name and must have the go-by until I have a spare moment. Make them indeed!"
"What else do you do?" asked Rob, in his innocent blunt way.
The stranger laughed.