“To be sure He is.  The song of labor is His, and I hev no doubt it is quite as sweet in His ear as the song of praise.  Your song is among the looms, and mine is among the winds and waves, but they are both the same, sir.  It is all right.  I’m sure I’m satisfied.”

“How you do love the sea, Captain!”

“To be sure, I was born on it and, please God, I hope my death may be from it and my grave in it, nearby some coast where the fisher-folk live happily around me.”

There was a few moments’ silence, then John Hatton asked, “Are we likely to have fine weather now?”

“Yes, sir, middling fine, until we pass Peterhead.  At Aberdeen and southward it may be still finer, and you might have a grand sail along the east coast of Scotland and take a look at some of its famous towns.”

This pleasant prospect was amply verified.  It was soon blue seas and white sea-birds and sunny skies, with a nice little whole-sail breeze in the right direction.  But John was not lured by any of the storied towns of the east coast.  “What time I can now spare I will give to Edinburgh,” he said, in answer to the Captain’s suggestion concerning St. Andrews, Aberdeen, Anstruther and Largo.  “I am straight for Edinburgh now.  I feel as if my holiday was over.  I heard the clack of the looms this morning.  They need me, I dare say.  I suppose we can be in Leith harbor by Saturday night, Captain?”

“It may be Sunday, sir, if this wind holds.  It is an east-windy west-windy coast, and between here and Edinburgh the wind doesn’t know its own mind an hour at a time.”

“Well, then, say Sunday.  I will stay a few days in Edinburgh, and then it must be Whitby and home.”

It was Sunday afternoon when the yacht was snug in Leith harbor, and the streets of Edinburgh were full of congregations returning home from the different churches.  He went to an hotel on Prince Street and ordered a good dinner spread in his sitting-room.  It was a large outlooking apartment, showing him in the glorious sunset the Old Town piled as by a dreamer, story over story, and at the top of this dream-like hill, the gray ancient castle with bugles and the roll of drums sounding behind its ramparts.  Bridges leaped across a valley edged with gardens connecting the Old Town with the New Town.  Wherever his eyes fell, all was romance and memories of romance, a magically

    Towered, templed Metropolitan,
      Waited upon by hills,
    River, and wide-spread ocean; tinged
    By April light, or draped and fringed
      As April vapor wills. 
    Hanging like some vast Cyclops’ dream
    High in the shifting weather gleam.

After dinner he sat at the open window, thinking of many things, until he finally fell asleep to dream of that illuminated vault in the castle, in which glitters mysteriously the crown and scepter of the ancient kings and queens of Scotland.