“Ah, mother, but a Scotch University does not count for the same as an English one,” said Colin, with a smile and a sigh; “it is not for my gifts Sir Thomas has chosen me,” he added, somewhat impatiently, taking up his pen again. What was it for? That old obligation of Harry Frankland’s life saved, which Colin had always treated as a fiction? or the sweet influence of some one who knew that Colin loved her? Which was it? If the youth determined it should be the last, could anybody wonder? He bent his head again over his paper, and wrote, with his heart beating high, that acceptance which was to restore him to her society. As for the Mistress, she left her son, and went about her homely business, wiping some tears from her eyes. “I kenna what woman could close her heart,” she said to herself, with a little sob, in her ignorance and innocence. “Oh, if she’s only worthy!” but, for all that, the mother’s heart was heavy within her, though she could not have told why. The letter was finished and sealed up before Colin joined his friend on the hillside, where Lauderdale was straying about with his hands in his pockets, breathing long sighs into the fresh air, and unable to restrain, or account for, his own restlessness and uneasiness. One of those great dramas of sunshine and shadow, which are familiar to the Holy Loch, was going on just then among the hills, and the philosopher had made various attempts to interest himself in those wonderful alternations of gloom and light, but without avail. Nature, which is so full of interest when the heart is unoccupied, dwindles and grows pale in presence of the poorest human creature who throws a shadow into her sunshine. Not all those wonderful gleams of light--not all those clouds, driven wildly like so many gigantic phantoms into the solemn hollows, could touch the heart of the man who was trembling for his friend. Lauderdale roused himself up when Colin came to him, and met him cheerfully. “So you’ve written your letter?” he said, “and accepted the offer? I thought as much, by your eye.” “You did not need to consult my eye,” said Colin, gaily. “I said as much. But I must walk down the loch a mile or two to meet the postman. Will you come? Let us take the good of the hills,” said the youth, with his heart running over. “Who can tell when we may be here again together? I like this autumn weather, with its stormy colours; and I suppose now my fortune, as you call it, will lead me to a flat country--that is, for a year or two at least.”