“But a revulsion passed thro’ the brain and bosom of Elspie;
  And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting,
  Went to him where he stood, and answered: 

  “’No, Mr. Philip: 
  No; you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish: 
  No, Mr. Philip; forgive me.’

    “She stepped right to him, and boldly
  Took up his hand, and placed it in her’s, he daring no movement;
  Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow. 
  ‘I am afraid,’ she said; ‘but I will;’ and kissed the fingers. 
  And he fell on his knees, and kissed her own past counting...... 
  “As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her,
  Yielding, backward she sank to her seat, and, of what she was doing
  Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion,
  Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the curl on his forehead. 
  And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time, round her
  Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her close to his bosom. 
  “As they went home by the moon, ‘Forgive me, Philip,’ she whispered: 
  ’I have so many things to talk of all of a sudden,
  I who have never once thought a thing in my ignorant Highlands.’”
    —­pp. 39-44.

We may spare criticism here, for what reader will not have felt such poetry?  There is something in this of the very tenderness of tenderness; this is true delicacy, fearless and unembarrassed.  Here it seems almost captious to object:  perhaps, indeed, it is rather personal whim than legitimate criticism which makes us take some exception at “the curl on his forehead;” yet somehow there seems a hint in it of the pet curate.

Elspie’s doubts now return upon her with increased force; and it is not till after many conversations with the “teacher” that she allows her resolve to be fixed.  So, at last,

  “There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,
  Under that alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip.”

And, after their talk, she feels strong again, and fit to be his.—­Then they rise.

  “‘But we must go, Mr. Philip.’

  “‘I shall not go at all,’ said
  He, ‘If you call me Mr. Thank Heaven! that’s well over!’
  “‘No, but it’s not,’ she said; ’it is not over, nor will be. 
  Was it not, then,’ she asked, ’the name I called you first by? 
  No, Mr. Philip, no.  You have kissed me enough for two nights. 
  No.—­Come, Philip, come, or I’ll go myself without you.’ 
  “‘You never call me Philip,’ he answered, ‘until I kiss you.’”
    —­pp. 47, 48.

David Mackaye gives his consent; but first Hewson must return to College, and study for a year.