Two or three very simple causes united to prevent Hugh from repeating his visit to David so soon as he would otherwise have done.  One was, that, the fine weather continuing, he was seized with the desire of exploring the neighbourhood.  The spring, which sets some wild animals to the construction of new dwellings, incites man to the enlarging of his, making, as it were, by discovery, that which lies around him his own.  So he spent the greater parts of several evenings in wandering about the neighbourhood; till at length the moonlight failed him.  Another cause was, that, in the act of searching for some books for his boys, in an old garret of the house, which was at once lumber room and library, he came upon some stray volumes of the Waverley novels, with which he was as yet only partially acquainted.  These absorbed many of his spare hours.  But one evening, while reading the Heart of Midlothian, the thought struck him—­what a character David would have been for Sir Walter.  Whether he was right or not is a question; but the notion brought David so vividly before him, that it roused the desire to see him.  He closed the book at once, and went to the cottage.

“We’re no lik’ly to ca’ ye onything but a stranger yet, Maister Sutherlan’,” said David, as he entered.

“I’ve been busy since I saw you,” was all the excuse Hugh offered.

“Weel, ye’r welcome noo; and ye’ve jist come in time after a’, for it’s no that mony hours sin’ I fand it oot awthegither to my ain settisfaction.”

“Found out what?” said Hugh; for he had forgotten all about the perplexity in which he had left David, and which had been occupying his thoughts ever since their last interview.

“Aboot the cross-bow an’ the birdie, ye ken,” answered David, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes, to be sure.  How stupid of me!” said Hugh.

“Weel, ye see, the meanin’ o’ the haill ballant is no that ill to win at, seein’ the poet himsel’ tells us that.  It’s jist no to be proud or ill-natured to oor neebours, the beasts and birds, for God made ane an’ a’ o’s.  But there’s harder things in’t nor that, and yon’s the hardest.  But ye see it was jist an unlucky thochtless deed o’ the puir auld sailor’s, an’ I’m thinkin’ he was sair reprocht in’s hert the minit he did it.  His mates was fell angry at him, no for killin’ the puir innocent craytur, but for fear o’ ill luck in consequence.  Syne when nane followed, they turned richt roun’, an’ took awa’ the character o’ the puir beastie efter ’twas deid.  They appruved o’ the verra thing ’at he was nae doot sorry for.—­But onything to haud aff o’ themsels!  Nae suner cam the calm, than roun’ they gaed again like the weathercock, an’ naething wad content them bit hingin’ the deid craytur about the auld man’s craig, an’ abusin’ him forby.  Sae ye see hoo they war a wheen selfish crayturs, an’ a hantle waur nor the man ’at was led astray into an ill deed.  But still he maun rue’t.  Sae Death got them, an’ a kin’ o’ leevin’ Death, a she Death as ‘twar, an’ in some respecks may be waur than the ither, got grips o’ him, puir auld body!  It’s a’ fair and richt to the backbane o’ the ballant, Maister Sutherlan’, an’ that I’se uphaud.”