The graceful verse haunted me all that day, repeating spontaneously, again and again, its tuneful refrain.  For up at Ardmuirland we have to wait till May for settled springtide.

Later on I strolled across to her cottage to have a chat with “Bell o’ the Burn.”  I found her busy at her washtub on the threshold of the door, but none the less ready to enter into conversation, as I leaned on the garden fence watching her tireless pink hands, as they worked up the snowy soapsuds.

“You’ve maybe haird the news, sir?” she began, a note of inquiry in her tone.

I had seen yesterday’s Scotsman, but not in those pages did any of our folk look for news.  They read—­those, at least, who possess that accomplishment—­the stories in the People’s Friend and the like, if they were young; those who were older scanned the columns of the local newspaper, published in the county town, and believed firmly in the absolute truth of everything that was asserted there.  But “news” meant something more intimate—­something which affected our own immediate circle by its relation to the daily life and interests of those around us.

So, knowing this, I did not dream about any startling political crisis, recent mining disaster, or railway collision; Bell knew nothing about such events.  Experience had taught me to allow her to enlighten me in her own way.  So I put a question to that end.

“Have you heard some news?” I said.

Bell’s delight at being first in the field was evident.

“Christian Logan’s come intil a fortune!” she replied, with no little delight.

“That is good news, indeed!” I cried impulsively.  For Christian was, beyond doubt, one of the poorest of our neighbors, and the most deserving.

“But where did the fortune come from, Bell?” I asked.

“Her mon,” explained Bell, “had a cousin oot in Ameriky as fowks allays said wes gey rich.  But he niver so much as sent a word to Donal’ for years, till juist aboot a week afore the puir mon met wi’ his accident, ye ken.  An’ he says in the letter,” continued the old woman, warming up with the interest attaching to her subject, “as Donal’ wes the only kin left him, an’ he’d find himsel’ nane the worse o’ that.  Alexander Gowan, they callit him.”

“And so this cousin is dead, I suppose?”

“Na, na, sir,” replied Bell.  “Gowan’s on his wye back frae Ameriky, ye ken, an’ Christian’s had word to expect him.  Maybe he’ll be up here in twa, three days after he lands, like.”

This was news with a vengeance!  An American who was “gey rich” might be a millionaire!  All kinds of rosy visions began to float through my brain.  Thoughts of the manifold additions and improvements which Val was dying to make in the church; of the shinty club we were so anxious to start, but could not for want of means; of the hall we planned to build some day for concerts and social gatherings in the long winter evenings—­all started into new life at the prospect of a wealthy Catholic returning to his native land with gold in his pocket and a ready hand to scatter it liberally for the benefit of his kinsfolk!