“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, at which we both of us laughed. “It is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the least afraid with you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of your cousin too.” “O, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. “My father is afraid of her himself.” The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a traitor to be silent. “Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no later than this morning.” “Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me. “You saw James More? You will have spoken with him then?” “I did even that,” said I. Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible. She gave me a look of mere gratitude. “Ah, thank you for that!” says she. “You thank me for very little,” said I, and then stopped. But it seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. “I spoke rather ill to him,” said I; “I did no like him very much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.” “I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do not love and cherish him I will not know.” “I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to tremble. “Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at Prestongrange’s. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.” “It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.” “Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world.” “And I am not wondering at that,” said she. “O, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?” “I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” said she. “I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk.” “O, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, “I cannae bear it else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through with my dreadful fate? If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.” She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my words or the tone of my voice she came to a stop. “What is this you say?” she asked. “What are you talking of?”