ving been in any larger abode of men than a
scattered village of thatched roofs. But he was not tired, and so
long as a man is not tired, he can do well, even in pain. But a
city is a dreary place at night, even to one who knows his way in
it--much drearier to one lost--in some respects drearier than a
heath--except there be old mine-shafts in it.

"It's as gien a' the birds o' a country had creepit intil their bit
eggs again, an' the day was left bare o' sang!" said the poet to
himself as he walked. Night amongst houses was a new thing to him.
Night on the hillsides and in the fields he knew well; but this was
like a place of tombs--what else, when all were dead for the night?
The night is the world's graveyard, and the cities are its
catacombs. He repeated to himself all his own few ballads, then
repeated them aloud as he walked, indulging the fancy that he had a
long audience on each side of him; but he dropped into silence the
moment any night-wanderer appeared. Presently he found himself on
the shore of the river, and tried to get to the edge of the water;
but it was low tide, the lamps did not throw much light so far, the
moon was clouded, he got among logs and mud, and regained the street
bemired, and beginning to feel weary. He was saying to himself what
ever was he to do all the night long, when round a corner a little
way off came a woman. It was no use asking counsel of her, however,
or of anyone, he thought, so long as he did not know even the name
of the street he wanted--a street which as he walked along it had
seemed interminable. The woman drew near. She was rather tall,
erect in the back, but bowed in the shoulders, with fierce black
eyes, which were all that he could see of her face, for she had a
little tartan shawl over her head, which she held together with one
hand, while in the other she carried a basket. But those eyes were
enough to make him fancy he must have seen her before. They were
just passing each other, under a lamp, when she looked hard at him,
and stopped.

"Man," she said, "I hae set e'en upo' your face afore!"

"Gien that be the case," answered Donal, "ye set e'en upo' 't
again."

"Whaur come ye frae?" she asked.

"That's what I wad fain speir mysel'," he replied. "But, wuman," he
went on, "I fancy I hae set e'en upo' your e'en afore--I canna weel
say for yer face. Whaur come ye frae?"

"Ken ye a place they ca'--Daurside?" she rejoined.

"Daurside's a gey la