“She stepped right to him, and boldly Took up his hand, and placed it in her's, he daring no movement; Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. ‘I am afraid,’ she said; ‘but I will;’ and kissed the fingers. And he fell on his knees, and kissed her own past counting...... “As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her, Yielding, backward she sank to her seat, and, of what she was doing Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion, Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the curl on his forehead. And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time, round her Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her close to his bosom. “As they went home by the moon, ‘Forgive me, Philip,’ she whispered: ‘I have so many things to talk of all of a sudden, I who have never once thought a thing in my ignorant Highlands.’”—pp. 39-44.
We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have felt such poetry? There is something in this of the very tenderness of tenderness; this is true delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed. Here it seems almost captious to object: perhaps, indeed, it is rather personal whim than legitimate criticism which makes us take some exception at “the curl on his forehead;” yet somehow there seems a hint in it of the pet curate.
Elspie's doubts now return upon her with increased force; and it is not till after many conversations with the “teacher” that she allows her resolve to be fixed. So, at last,
“There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October, Under that alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip.”
And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit to be his.—Then they rise.
“‘But we must go, Mr. Philip.’
“‘I shall not go at all,’ said He, ‘If you call me Mr. Thank Heaven! that's well over!’ “‘No, but it's not,’ she said; ‘it is not over, nor will be. Was it not, then,’ she asked, ‘the name I called you first by? No, Mr. Philip, no. You have kissed me enough for two nights. No.—Come, Philip, come, or I'll go myself without you.’ “‘You never call me Philip,’ he answered, ‘until I kiss you.’”—pp. 47, 48.
David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must return to College, and study for a year.
His views have not been stationary. To his old scorn for the idle of the earth had succeeded the surprise that overtook him at Balloch: and he would now hold to his creed, yet not as rejecting his experience. Some, he says, were made for use; others for ornament; but let these be so made, of a truth, and not such as find themselves merely thrust into exemption from labor. Let each know his place, and take it, “For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for.” And of his friend urging Providence he can only, while answering that doubtless he must be in the right, ask where the limit comes between circumstance and Providence, and can but wish for a great cause, and the trumpet that should call him to God's battle, whereas he sees
“Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation, Backed by a solemn appeal, ‘For God's sake, do not stir there.’” And the year is now out. “Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after.... There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October, When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded, And, amid russet of heather and fern, green trees are bonnie, There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered, David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie; Elspie, the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip, the poet..... So won Philip his bride. They are married, and gone to New Zealand. Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books and two or three pictures, Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand. There he hewed and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit.”—pp. 52-55.