were snug and empty, this was going to be a day in ten thousand.
Thus mirthfully he swung down the rough grass-grown road, past the
railway, till he came to a point where heath began to merge in pasture,
and dry-stone walls split the moor into fields. Suddenly his pace
slackened and song died on his lips. For, approaching from the right
by a tributary path was the Poet.

Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a friendly hand. In spite
of his chagrin Dickson could not but confess that he had misjudged
his critic. Striding with long steps over the heather, his jacket
open to the wind, his face a-glow and his capless head like a whin-bush
for disorder, he cut a more wholesome figure than in the smoking-room
the night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for he
brandished his stick and shouted greetings.

"Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in with you again.
You must have thought me a pretty fair cub last night."

"I did that," was the dry answer.

"Well, I want to apologize. God knows what made me treat you to a
university-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every
man's entitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me
to start jawing you."

Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible
to apologies.

"That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention it. I'm wondering
what brought you down here, for it's off the road."