ear us. They may tell the
birds, and the birds may tell ither birds, but what o' that? There's
few mortals wise enough to understand birds. Now, Neil, come awa wi'
your gude sense, I'll trouble you nae langer wi' my foolishness. And
good day to you, Sir!" she said. "I'm real glad you are my brother's
friend. I dinna think he will go out o' the way far, if you are wi'
him."

Ballister entreated her to remain, but with a smile she vanished among
the thick shrubbery. Ballister was disappointed, and somehow Neil was
not equal to the occasion. It was hard to find a subject Ballister
felt any interest in, and after a short interval he bade Neil good-bye
and said he would see him on the following day.

"No, on the day after tomorrow," corrected Neil. "That was the time
fixed, Angus. Tomorrow I will finish up my work for the university,
and I will be at your service, very happily and gratefully, on Friday
morning." Then Neil led him down the garden path to the sandy shore,
so he did not return to the cottage, but went away hungry for another
sight of Christine.

Neil was pleased, and displeased. He felt that it would have been
better for him if Christine had not interfered, but there was the
delayed writing to be finished, and he hurried up the steep pathway to
the cottage. Some straying vines caught his careless footsteps, and
threw him down, and though he was not hurt, the circumstance annoyed
him. As soon as he entered the cottage, he was met by Christine, and
her first remark added to his discomfort:

"Whate'er hae you been doing to yoursel', Neil Ruleson? Your coat is
torn, and your face scratched. Surely you werna fighting wi' your
friend."

"You know better, Christine. I was thrown by those nasty blackberry
vines. I intend to cut them all down. They catch everyone that passes
them, and they are in everyone's way. They ought to be cleared out,
and I will attend to them tomorrow morning, if I have to get up at
four o'clock to do it."

"You willna touch the vines. Feyther likes their fruit, and Mither is
planning to preserve part o' it. And I, mysel', am vera fond o' vines.
The wee wrens, and the robin redbreasts, look to the vines for food
and shelter, and you'll not dare to hurt their feelings, for

"The Robin, wi' the red breast,
The Robin, and the wren,
If you do them any wrong,
You'll never thrive again."

"Stop, Christine, I have a great deal to think of, and to ask your
help in."

"Weel, Ne