"Ou ay； I daur say； I dinna ken. But I canna help thinkin' 'at what disna gie God onything like fair play， canna dee muckle guid to men， an' may， I doobt， dee a heap o' ill. It's a p鈍an kin' o' a thing yon.""That's just what I was feeling--I don't say thinking， you know--for you say we must not say think when we have taken no trouble about it. I am sorry for Mr. Duff， if he has taken to teaching where he does not understand."They had left the city behind them， and were walking a wide open road， with a great sky above it. On its borders were small fenced fields， and a house here and there with a garden. It was a plain-featured， slightly undulating country， with hardly any trees--not at all beautiful， except as every place under the heaven which man has not defiled is beautiful to him who can see what is there. But this night the earth was nothing： what was in them and over them was all. Donal felt--as so many will feel， before the earth， like a hen set to hatch the eggs of a soaring bird， shall have done rearing broods for heaven--that， with this essential love and wonder by his side， to be doomed to go on walking to all eternity would be a blissful fate， were the landscape turned to a brick-field， and the sky to persistent gray.
"Wad ye no tak my airm， mem？" he said at length， summoning courage.
"I jist fin' mysel' like a horse wi' a reyn brocken， gaein' by mysel' throu' the air this gait."Before he had finished the sentence Ginevra had accepted the offer.
It was the first time. His arm trembled. He thought it was her hand.
"Ye're no cauld， are ye， mem？" he said.
"Not the least，" she answered.
"Eh， mem！ gien fowk was but a' made oot o' the same clay， like， 'at ane micht say till anither--'Ye hae me as ye hae yersel''！""Yes， Donal，" rejoined Ginevra； "I wish we were all made of the poet-clay like you！ What it would be to have a well inside， out of which to draw songs and ballads as I pleased！ That's what you have， Donal--or， rather， you're just a draw-well of music yourself."Donal laughed merrily. A moment more and he broke out singing：
My thoughts are like fireflies， pulsing in moonlight；My heart is a silver cup， full of red wine；My soul a pale gleaming horizon， whence soon light Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
"What's that， Donal？" cried Ginevra.
"Ow， naething，" answered Donal. "It was only my hert lauchin'.""Say the words，" said Ginevra.
"I canna--I dinna ken them noo，" replied Donal.
"Oh， Donal！ are those lovely words gone--altogether--for ever？
Shall I not hear them again？"
"I'll try to min' upo' them whan I gang hame，" he said. "I canna the noo. I can think o' naething but ae thing.""And what is that， Donal？"
"Yersel'，" answered Donal.
Ginevra's hand lifted just a half of its weight from Donal's arm， like a bird that had thought of flying， then settled again.
"It is very pleasant to be together once more as in the old time， Donal--though there are no daisies and green fields.--But what place is that， Donal？"Instinctively， almost unconsciously， she wanted to turn the conversation. The place she pointed to was an opening immediately on the roadside， through a high bank--narrow and dark， with one side half lighted by the moon. She had often passed it， walking with her school-fellows， but had never thought of asking what it was. In the shining dusk it looked strange and a little dreadful.
"It's the muckle quarry， mem，" answered Donal： "div ye no ken that？
That's whaur maist the haill toon cam oot o'. It's a some eerie kin' o' a place to luik at i' this licht. I won'er at ye never saw't.""I have seen the opening there， but never took much notice of it before，" said Ginevra.
"Come an' I'll lat ye see't，" rejoined Donal. "It's weel worth luikin' intill. Ye hae nae notion sic a place as 'tis. It micht be amo' the grenite muntains o' Aigypt， though they takna freely sic fine blocks oot o' this ane as they tuik oot o' that at Syene. Ye wadna be fleyt to come an' see what the meen maks o' 't， wad ye， mem？""No， Donal. I would not be frightened to go anywhere with you.
But--"
"Eh， mem！ it maks me richt prood to hear ye say that. Come awa'
than."
So saying， he turned aside， and led her into the narrow passage， cut through a friable sort of granite. Gibbie， thinking they had gone to have but a peep and return， stood in the road， looking at the clouds and the moon， and crooning to himself. By and by， when he found they did not return， he followed them.
When they reached the end of the cutting， Ginevra started at sight of the vast gulf， the moon showing the one wall a ghastly gray， and from the other throwing a shadow half across the bottom. But a winding road went down into it， and Donal led her on. She shrunk at first， drawing back from the profound， mysterious-looking abyss， so awfully still； but when Donal looked at her， she was ashamed to refuse to go farther， and indeed almost afraid to take her hand from his arm； so he led her down the terrace road. The side of the quarry was on one hand， and on the other she could see only into the gulf.
"Oh， Donal！" she said at length， almost in a whisper， "this is like a dream I once had， of going down and down a long roundabout road， inside the earth， down and down， to the heart of a place full of the dead--the ground black with death， and between horrible walls."Donal looked at her； his face was in the light reflected from the opposite gray precipice： she thought it looked white and strange， and grew more frightened， but dared not speak. Presently Donal again began to sing， and this is something like what he sang：--"Death！ whaur do ye bide， auld Death？"
"I bide in ilka breath，"
Quo' Death.
"No i' the pyramids， An' no the worms amids， 'Neth coffin-lids；I bidena whaur life has been， An' whaur's nae mair to be dune.""Death！ whaur do ye bide， auld Death？"
"Wi' the leevin'， to dee 'at's laith，"
Quo' Death.
"Wi' the man an' the wife 'At lo'e like life， But strife； (without)Wi' the bairns 'at hing to their mither， An' a' 'at lo'e ane anither.""Death！ whaur do ye bide， auld Death？"
"Abune an' aboot an' aneath，"
Quo' Death.
