Go to!  Petronius, go to!  How “stale, flat, and unprofitable” were all thy vaunted pleasures, compared with mine.  Alas! for thy noble intellect draggled in the mire to pander to an Imperial Swine, and for all thy power and wise statecraft which yet could not save thee from untimely death.

And thou, Brantome! old gossip, with all thy scandalous stories of ladies, always and ever “tres belle, et fort honnete,” couldst not find time among them all to note the glories of the world wherein they lived, and moved, and had their “fort honnete” being?

But let it not be thought my leisure hours were passed in idle dreaming and luxurious ease; on the contrary, I had, with much ado, rethatched the broken roof of my cottage as well as I might, mended the chimney, fitted glass to the casements and a new door upon its hinges.  This last was somewhat clumsily contrived, I grant you, and of a vasty strength quite unnecessary, yet a very, excellent door I considered it, nevertheless.

Having thus rendered my cottage weather-proof, I next turned my attention to furnishing it.  To which end I, in turn, and with infinite labor, constructed a bedstead, two elbow-chairs, and a table; all to the profound disgust of Donald, who could by no means abide the rasp of my saw, so that, reaching for his pipes, he would fill the air with eldrich shrieks and groans, or drown me in a torrent of martial melody.

It was about this time—­that is to say, my second bedstead was nearing completion, and I was seriously considering the building of a press with cupboards to hold my crockery, also a shelf for my books—­when, chancing to return home somewhat earlier than usual, I was surprised to see Donald sitting upon the bench I had set up beside the door, polishing the buckles of that identical pair of square-toed shoes that had once so piqued my curiosity.

As I approached he rose, and came to meet me with the brogues in his hand.

“Man, Peter,” said he, “I maun juist be gangin’.”

’"Going!” I repeated; “going where?”

“Back tae Glenure—­the year is a’most up, ye ken, an’ I wadna’ hae ma brither Alan afore me wi’ the lassie, forbye he’s an unco braw an’ sonsy man, ye ken, an’ a lassie’s mind is aye a kittle thing.”

“True,” I answered, “what little I know of woman would lead me to suppose so; and yet—­Heaven knows!  I shall be sorry to lose you, Donald.”

“Ay—­I ken that fine, an’ ye’ll be unco lonesome wi’out me an’ the pipes, I’m thinkin’.”

“Very!”

“Eh, Peter, man! if it wasna’ for the lassie, I’d no hae the heart tae leave ye.  Ye’ll no be forgettin’ the ’Wullie Wallace Lament’?”

“Never!” said I.

“Oh, man, Peter! it’s in my mind ye’ll no hear sic pipin’ again, forbye there’s nae man—­Hielander nor Lowlander—­has juist the trick o’ the ‘warblers’ like me, an’ it’s no vera like we shall e’er meet again i’ this warld, man, Peter.  But I’ll aye think o’ ye—­away there in Glenure, when I play the ‘Wullie Wallace’ bit tune—­I’ll aye think o’ ye, Peter, man.”