ed as renewed, to tear down these rocks, so do the men of
this world go on and on, spending their strength for nought."

"Hoots, Fergus!" said Donal again, in broadest speech, as if with
its bray he would rebuke not the madness but the silliness of the
prophet, "ye dinna mean to tell me yon jaws (billows) disna ken
their business better nor imaigine they hae to caw doon the rocks?"

Duff cast a second glance of scorn at what he took for the prosaic
stupidity or poverty-stricken logomachy of Donal, while Ginevra
opened on him big brown eyes, as much as to say, "Donal, who was it
set me down for saying a man couldn't be a burn?" But Gibbie's face
was expectant: he knew Donal. Mrs. Sclater also looked interested:
she did not much like Duff, and by this time she suspected Donal of
genius. Donal turned to Ginevra with a smile, and said, in the best
English he could command--

"Bear with me a moment, Miss Galbraith. If Mr. Duff will oblige me
by answering my question, I trust I shall satisfy you I am no
turncoat."

Fergus stared. What did his father's herd-boy mean by talking such
English to the ladies, and such vulgar Scotch to him? Although now
a magistrand--that is, one about to take his degree of Master of
Arts--Donal was still to Fergus the cleaner-out of his father's
byres--an upstart, whose former position was his real one--towards
him at least, who knew him. And did the fellow challenge him to a
discussion? Or did he presume on the familiarity of their boyhood,
and wish to sport his acquaintance with the popular preacher? On
either supposition, he was impertinent.

"I spoke poetically," he said, with cold dignity.

"Ye'll excuse me, Fergus," replied Donal, "--for the sake o' auld
langsyne, whan I was, as I ever will be, sair obligatit till ye--but
i' that ye say noo, ye're sair wrang: ye wasna speykin' poetically,
though I ken weel ye think it, or ye wadna say 't; an' that's what
garred me tak ye up. For the verra essence o' poetry is trowth, an'
as sune's a word's no true, it's no poetry, though it may hae on the
cast claes o' 't. It's nane but them 'at kens na what poetry is,
'at blethers aboot poetic license, an' that kin' o' hen-scraich, as
gien a poet was sic a gowk 'at naebody eedit hoo he lee'd, or
whether he gaed wi' 's cwite (coat) hin' side afore or no."

"I am at a loss to understand you--Donal?--yes, Donal Grant. I
remember you very well; and from the trouble I used to take with you