Gold butterflies are light upon the wing;
Gold is shining through the eyelids that were holden
Till the spring."


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