"No." I spoke with decision. I made a physical effort to speak so. "I shall remain where I am--for a while. I have Cale. When I go, he goes with me; but, oh, don't, don't say any more--I cannot bear it!" My words were half prayer, half groan. I felt suddenly weak, sick throughout my whole body. "I wish I might bear this for you, dear girl. I had to say it. I could not let you go on--" "I know, I know, you did your duty--but don't say anything more." I held out my hand. "I shall be up in the morning and get your breakfast; it's so early for you to start. The others won't be up." "I wish you would," he said eagerly. "I must satisfy myself that you are up and about before I go, otherwise--" He hesitated. "Don't worry. I shall be about just the same--only now--" "I know; you want to be alone--you can bear no more. Good night." He left the room abruptly. XXX Mechanically I covered the dying fire with ashes; lighted my candle; snuffed out those in the sconces, and went out into the kitchen. I wound the clock and set my bread to rise. I heard one of the dogs whining in the dining-room; he had been unintentionally shut in. I let him out. He showed his gratitude in his dog's way and followed me, unbidden, upstairs to my room. I entered, and shut the door softly not to rouse Jamie and Mrs. Macleod. I heard the dog settle on the threshold. Somehow, the sound helped me to bear. It was something belonging to _him_ that was near me in my trouble. I sat down on the side of my bed--sat there, I think, all night. A round of thought kept turning like a mill-wheel in my head:--"The man I love is my father--Mr. Ewart, my father, is the man I love." It was maddening. The mill-wheel turned and turned with terrible rapidity. I held my head in both hands. Towards morning, when the light began to break, I looked about me. At sight of the familiar interior, the wheel in my head turned more slowly--stepped for a moment. In the silence I could think; think another thought: "The Doctor is not _sure_--" I rose, steadying myself by holding on to the footboard. "Not sure--not sure." The mill-wheel was at work again. "Not sure--not sure." "Of course _not_." I spoke aloud. The sound of my own voice gave me poise. The wheel turned slowly. In another moment my whole being was in revolt. I spoke again: "_It is not true_. Not until he tells me, will I believe. The Doctor is mistaken; black and white can lie--even after twenty-seven years. The man I love--and I cannot help loving him--is not the man who is responsible for me in this world." All my woman's nature cried out against this blasphemy of circumstances against my love--my love for Gordon Ewart, that was so true, so pure; pure in its depths of passion, true in its patience sanctified through endurance.