"I am but a young lassie," said Vara, calmly, "and think on nane o' thae things. Neither will ony body believe them but yoursel'. But I'm gaun to hae my wages, or I'll gang to the kirk yett next Sabbath, and tell a' the neebours how ye treat your servants, starvin' them on scraps like dogs, making their lives a burden to them to get them no to bide aboot the hoose, and then at the hinder end threatening them to give them nae wages." This threat, which would have feared no one who was conscious of good intent, somewhat stilled Mrs. McWalter's fury. For she knew that anything of the kind would be greedily listened to, and retailed at all the tea drinking in the neighbourhood. And she felt, also, that she had not quite the character in the country-side upon which such accusations would fall harmless. She went to a locked drawer. "Here's your wages," she said, "and an ill wish gang wi' them. Glad am I to be rid of you!" Even thus Vara took her departure from the house of Loch Spellanderie. John McWalter covertly watched her carrying her bundle out of the yard. He was looking round the corner of a corn stack. He dared not come out and bid the girl farewell because of his wife. But the tear was now in his own eye. "It micht hae been my ain lassie leavin' anither man's hoose. I am wae for her," he said. "But I'm glad it was a ten-pund note that I slippit her. And whatna state wad the wife no be in, gin she kenned!" And there came a faint pleasure into his grieved heart as he watched Vara out of sight. Meanwhile Mistress McWalter stood at the door with victory in the very poise of her ungainly figure. She had disdained to utter a word, as Vara went past her and quietly bade her "Good-night!" But now she cried, "Kit Kennedy! Kit Kennedy! Kit Kennedy!" with all the penetrative power of her voice. But there was no answer. Kit was not to be found. For Kit Kennedy was in a better place. He was bidding his lady Gloriana adieu. He had, indeed, never let Vara know that he had distinguished her by that name, nor, indeed, save by his kindness and help, that he thought of her at all. But now she was going away for ever. Her little bundle was in her hand. Her all was in it, and what Loch Spellanderie would be without her, Kit did not like to think just yet. It was under the orchard apple trees, at the place where they overhang the wall, that Kit was waiting. "I'm vexed, Vara, I'm sair vexed that ye are gaun awa' to leave us!" said Kit Kennedy, hanging his head. "I do not ken what we will do without you. It will no be the same place ava!" "Fare ye weel, lad," Vara said, holding out her hand; "ye hae been kind to me. Aye, juist past speakin' o'!" "I'll carry your bundle as far as the march dyke, gin ye'll let me," said Kit, for once, bashfully. "I canna bear to think on ye gangin' like this!" "Ye had better no," said Vara, "she micht see ye!"