Presently she said—
'I have a little album that I wish you would write something in before you go away altogether.'
'Oh yes, I will do that,' said he, 'and gladly.'
'But I mean something of your own,' she said rather more timidly.
'Why, but who told you—
'Oh, every one knows, surely!' said she. 'And why should you conceal it? There were the verses that you wrote about Mrs. Semple's little girl—I saw them when I was at Tongue last—and indeed I think they are quite beautiful: will you write out a copy of them in my album?'
'Or something else, perhaps,' said he—for instantly it flashed upon him that it was something better than a mere copy that was needed for Meenie's book. Here, indeed, was a chance. If there was any inspiration to be gained from these wild hills and straths and lonely lakes, now was the time for them to be propitious; would not Clebrig—the giant Clebrig—whose very child Meenie was—come to his aid, that so he might present to her some fragment of song or rhyme not unworthy to be added to her little treasury?
'I will send for the book to-morrow,' said he.
'I hope it will not give you too much trouble,' said she, as they reached the small gate, 'but it is very pleasant to turn over the leaves and see the actual writing of your friends, and think of when you last saw them and where they are now. And that seems to be the way with most of our friends; I suppose it is because we have moved about so; but there is scarcely any one left—and if it was not for a letter occasionally, or a dip into that album, I should think we were almost alone in the world. Well, good-night, Ronald—or will you come in and have a chat with my father?'
'I am afraid it is rather late,' he said.