There are the
song-poets and the life-poets, or rather the God-poems. Sympathy is
lovely and dear--chiefly when it comes unsought; but the fame after
which so many would-be, yea, so many real poets sigh, is poorest
froth. Donal could sing his songs like the birds, content with the
blue heaven or the sheep for an audience--or any passing angel that
cared to listen. On the hill-sides he would sing them aloud, but it
was of the merest natural necessity. A look of estrangement on the
face of a friend, a look of suffering on that of any animal, would
at once and sorely affect him, but not a disparaging expression on
the face of a comparative stranger, were she the loveliest woman he
had ever seen. He was little troubled about the world, because
little troubled about himself.
Lady Arctura and lord Forgue lived together like brother and sister,
apparently without much in common, and still less of
misunderstanding. There would have been more chance of their taking
a fancy to each other if they had not been brought up together; they
were now little together, and never alone together.
Very few visitors came to the castle, and then only to call. Lord
Morven seldom saw any one, his excuse being his health.
But lady Arctura was on terms of intimacy with Sophia Carmichael,
the minister's daughter--to whom her father had communicated his
dissatisfaction with the character of Donal, and poured out his
indignation at his conduct.
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