The poet never forgot the tender experiences of these years, and long afterward drew a lovely picture of Williamina in 'Rokeby':--
Wreathed in its dark brown rings, her hair Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, Half hid and half revealed to view Her full dark eye of hazel hue. The rose, with faint and feeble streak, So lightly tinged the maiden's cheek, That you had said her hue was pale: But if she faced the summer gale, Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, Or heard the praise of those she loved, The mantling blood in ready play Rivalled the blush of rising day.
But Walter Scott was a young man, and in his great big heart there was still room for love. If he thought his heart was broken, he admitted that it was 'handsomely pieced' again. Fascinated with the vivacity and attractiveness of Miss Carpenter, Scott remained at Gilsland much longer than he had intended. The lovers strolled through many delightful paths--walks which left their impress upon the poet's mind and gave him many backgrounds for his future verses and tales.
Miss Carpenter had rooms at a large hotel, known as Shaw's, where the momentous ball was held, and Scott was at Wardrew House, a private residence with a picturesque walled-in garden on the slope of a hill not far away. We followed them in fancy as they descended { 20} into the glen which separates these two houses, where they might drink of the mineral spring which gives a local fame to the place. Then like the faithful page of the Baron of Triermain, no doubt they 'crossed green Irthing's Mead' and wandering along the shady bank of this pleasant stream, reached
the favourite glade, Paled in by copsewood, cliff and stone, Where never harsher sounds invade To break affection's whispering tone Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, Than the small brooklet's feeble moan.
Then, turning a bend in the stream, perchance he invited her to
Come! rest thee on thy wonted seat; Mossed is the stone, the turf is green, A place where lovers best may meet Who would not that their love be seen.
Here is the so-called 'Popping Stone,' where, local tradition asserts, Scott asked the all-important question. Whether this is true or not makes no difference. The question was asked and the stone is there. Whatever virtue there may be in the stone, it is certain that thousands of young couples have found their way thither, and they have literally worn it away until now it is scarcely half its original size.