e the traces of the habit. He had
a loud voice, and an original way of regarding things, which, with his
vivacity, made every remark sound like the proclamation of a discovery.

'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose, absorbed
and silent.

'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.

'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.

'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being
supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.

I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather ashamed of
the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a modesty in all
young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide itself, like a boy's
or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the people. Something like this
was Robert's feeling over The Arabian Nights.

'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'
buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad hae
tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that ither
lyin' at yer elbuck.'

He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the wa'
and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert took up the
volume and opened it. There was no title-page.

'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?'

'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.'

'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?'

'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered John.
'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin' aboot the
country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that, I'm thinkin'.'

'Whaur did he bide?'

'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. That's the place
for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.'

'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?'

'I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's a lang time. But
I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they are noo. But I
ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill
for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win that far benn wi' him.
Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.'

But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately
landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland yet.
Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian Nights.
This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.

Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared