My thouchts are like fire-flies pulsing in moonlight;
My heart like a silver cup full of red wine;
My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light
Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin’;
My hert like a sponge that’s fillit wi’ gall;
My sowl like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin’,
To bide i’ the mirk till the great trumpet call.
But peace be upo’ ye, as deep as ye’re lo’esome!
Brak na an hoor o’ yer fair-dreamy sleep,
To think o’ the lad wi’ a weicht in his bosom,
’At ance sent a cry till ye oot o’ the deep.
Some sharp rocky heicht, to catch a far mornin’
Ayont a’ the nichts o’ this warl’, he’ll clim’;
For nane shall say, Luik! he sank doon at her scornin’,
Wha rase by the han’ she hield frank oot to him.
The letter was handed, with one or two more, to Mr. Galbraith, at the breakfast table. He did not receive many letters now, and could afford time to one that was for his daughter. He laid it with the rest by his side, and after breakfast took it to his room and read it. He could no more understand it than Fergus could the Epistle to the Romans, and therefore the little he did understand of it was too much. But he had begun to be afraid of his daughter: her still dignity had begun to tell upon him in his humiliation. He laid the letter aside, said nothing, and waited, inwardly angry and contemptuous. After a while he began to flatter himself with the hope that perhaps it was but a sort of impertinent valentine, the writer of which was unknown to Ginevra. From the moment of its arrival, however, he kept a stricter watch upon her, and that night prevented her from going to Mrs. Sclater’s. Gibbie, aware that Fergus continued his visits, doubted less and less that she had given herself to “The Bledder,” as Donal called the popular preacher.
CHAPTER LIV.
OF AGE.
There were no rejoicings upon Gibbie’s attainment of his twenty-first year. His guardian, believing he alone had acquainted himself with the date, and desiring in his wisdom to avoid giving him a feeling of importance, made no allusion to the fact, as would have been most natural, when they met at breakfast on the morning of the day. But, urged thereto by Donal, Gibbie had learned the date for himself, and finding nothing was said, fingered to Mrs. Sclater, “This is my birthday.”
“I wish you many happy returns,” she answered, with kind empressement. “How old are you to-day?”
“Twenty-one,” he answered—by holding up all his fingers twice and then a forefinger.
She looked struck, and glanced at her husband, who thereupon, in his turn, gave utterance to the usual formula of goodwill, and said no more. Seeing he was about to leave the table, Gibbie, claiming his attention, spelled on his fingers, very slowly, for Mr. Sclater was slow at following this mode of communication:
“If you please, sir, I want to be put in possession of my property as soon as possible.”
“All in good time, Sir Gilbert,” answered the minister, with a superior smile, for he clung with hard reluctance to the last vestige of his power.
“But what is good time?” spelled Gibbie with a smile, which, none the less that it was of genuine friendliness, indicated there might be difference of opinion on the point.