I seemed to be in a dream.

Every mile that brought us nearer to Scotland increased the intensity of my feelings.

My mother was equally moved, and I remember, when her eyes first caught sight of the familiar yellow bush, she exclaimed: "Oh! there's the broom, the broom!" Her heart was so full she could not restrain her tears, and the more I tried to make light of it or to soothe her, the more she was overcome.
For myself, I felt as if I could throw myself upon the sacred soil and kiss it.[22] [Footnote 22: "It's a God's mercy I was born a Scotchman, for I do not see how I could ever have been contented to be anything else.

The little dour deevil, set in her own ways, and getting them, too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true.

Ah! you suit me, Scotia, and proud am I that I am your son." (Andrew Carnegie, _Our Coaching Trip_, p.152.New York, 1882.)] In this mood we reached Dunfermline.