"How can you expect it?" George Bethune said, in perfect good humour. "Manual labour would be a degradation. Men of genius ought to be supported by the State."
"In the workus, I suppose," she said, sharply—but here Maisrie Bethune came upstairs and into the room, carrying some parcels in her hand, and instantly the landlady's face changed its expression, and became as amiable and smiling as the gaunt features would allow.
At dinner the old man told his granddaughter that he had procured (he did not say how) places at the —— Theatre for the following evening, and seemed to be pleased about this little break in their quiet lives.
"But why did you go to such expense, grandfather?" Maisrie said. "You know I am quite happy enough in spending the evening at home with you. And every day now I ask myself when I am to begin copying the poems—for the volume, you know. You have sent for them to America, haven't you? But really you have such a wonderful memory, grandfather, I believe you could repeat them all—and I could write them down—and let the printers have them. I was so glad when you let me help you with the book you published in Montreal; and you know my writing is clear enough; you remember what the foreman printer said? Don't you think we could begin to-night, grandfather? It pleases you to repeat those beautiful verses—you are so fond of them—and proud of them because they are written by Scotchmen—and I am sure it would be a delight to me to write them out for you."
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, fretfully, "but not to-night. You're always in such a hurry, Maisrie." And then he added, in a gentler way, "Well, it is a wonderful blessing, a good memory. I never want for a companion, when I've a Scotch air or a Scotch song humming through my brain. On the darkest and wettest day, here in this big city, what have you to do but think of
'The broom, the yellow, yellow broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,'
and at once you have before you golden banks, and meadows, and June skies, and all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland has become for me such a storehouse of beautiful things—in imagination—that I am almost afraid to return to it, in case the reality might disappoint me. No, no, it could not disappoint me: I treasure every inch of the sacred soil: but sometimes I wonder if you will recognise the magic and witchery of hill and glen. As for me, there is naught else I fear now; there are no human ties I shall have to take up again; I shall not have to mourn the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
"What is that, grandfather?"
"If you had been brought up in Scotland, Maisrie, you would know what the bigging o' bourocks is among children—play-houses in the sand. But sometimes the word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is in the title of Hugh Ainslie's poem. That poem is one that I shall be proud to give a place to in my collection," he continued, with an air of importance. "Hugh Ainslie is no more with us; but his countrymen, whether in America or at home, are not likely to forget the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
"Can you remember it, grandfather?"