Its true end is to help first the man who makes it along the path to the truth: help for other people may or may not be in it; that, if it become a question at all, must be an after one.
To the man who has it, the gift is invaluable; and, in proportion as it helps him to be a better man, it is of value to the whole world; but it may, in itself, be so nearly worthless, that the publishing of it would be more for harm than good.

Ask any one who has had to perform the unenviable duty of editor to a magazine: he will corroborate what I say--that the quantity of verse good enough to be its own reward, but without the smallest claim to be uttered to the world, is enormous.
Not yet, however, had Donal written a single stanza.

A line, or at most two, would now and then come into his head with a buzz, like a wandering honey-bee that had mistaken its hive--generally in the shape of a humorous malediction on Hornie--but that was all.
In the mean time Gibbie slept and waked and slept again, night after night--with the loveliest days between, at the cottage on Glashgar.
The morning after his arrival, the first thing he was aware of was Janet's face beaming over him, with a look in its eyes more like worship then benevolence.

Her husband was gone, and she was about to milk the cow, and was anxious lest, while she was away, he should disappear as before.

But the light that rushed into his eyes was in full response to that which kindled the light in hers, and her misgiving vanished; he could not love her like that and leave her.
She gave him his breakfast of porridge and milk, and went to her cow.
When she came back, she found everything tidy in the cottage, the floor swept, every dish washed and set aside; and Gibbie was examining an old shoe of Robert's, to see whether he could not mend it.