And here we must acquaint our reader that, though the private
interchange of looks betwixt Catharine Glover and the young mountaineer
indicated some interest on the part of the former in the conduct
of the latter, it would have puzzled the strictest observer to
discover whether that feeling exceeded in degree what might have
been felt by a young person towards a friend and inmate of the same
age, with whom she had lived on habits of intimacy.

"Thou hast had a long journey, son Henry," said Glover, who had
always used that affectionate style of speech, though no ways akin
to the young artisan; "ay, and hast seen many a river besides Tay,
and many a fair bigging besides St. Johnston."

"But none that I like half so well, and none that are half so
much worth my liking," answered the smith. "I promise you, father,
that, when I crossed the Wicks of Baiglie, and saw the bonny city
lie stretched fairly before me like a fairy queen in romance, whom
the knight finds asleep among a wilderness of flowers, I felt even
as a bird when it folds its wearied wings to stoop down on its own
nest."

"Aha! so thou canst play the maker [old Scottish for poet] yet?"
said the glover. "What, shall we have our ballets and our roundels
again? our lusty carols for Christmas, and our mirthful springs to
trip it round the maypole?"

"Such toys there may be forthcoming, father," said Henry Smith,
"though the blast of the bellows and the clatter of the anvil make
but coarse company to lays of minstrelsy; but I can afford them no
better, since I must mend my fortune, though I mar my verses."