"You see, Mamie, I understand the Highland character better than you do. All that sullenness and ill-will doesn’t arise merely from high rent and Mr. Purdie’s tyranny—though that no doubt has something to do with it. There are sentimental influences at work as well. There is the strong attachment towards the old family—very unreasoning, perhaps, but there it is; and there is resentment against those who have displaced them. Then there may be anger about your uncle having destroyed the ancient landmarks; and injuries of that kind are not easily forgotten or forgiven. But every hour that I am in this place," continued Käthchen, as they were making home through the strangely-silent dusk, "I am more and more convinced that what Mr. Purdie said was perfectly correct—that young Donald Ross of Heimra is just everybody and everything to those people. He is all-powerful with them. Very well. I cannot believe that he has stirred up ill-will against you, or even that he wishes it to continue. He may do everything he can to thwart and madden Mr. Purdie—-why not?—I would do that myself, if I were in his place!—but how can he have any wish to injure you? Then what I say is this: if you really mean to go and see him, put entirely out of your mind what you may have heard about his private character, and his poaching and smuggling, and remember only that his influence over those people could make everything quite pleasant to you. Don’t go to him as you did this morning, as an enemy to be challenged and reproached: no, what you have to do is just to lower your pride a little, and tell him that you have come to beg for a favour. In fact, I am convinced that a word from him would entirely change the situation. Mamie, are you going to ask for it?" Mary Stanley did not answer: she walked on in silence. CHAPTER VIII. FACE TO FACE. She was out in the solitude of the woods, and she was alone. It was early morning, clear, and calm, and still; the sun lay warm on the silver-lichened boulders that were dappled with velvet-green moss; the wandering air that stirred the pendulous branches of the birches brought with it a resinous odour, from the innumerable millions of opening buds. A profound silence prevailed, save for the hushed continuous murmur of an unseen rivulet, and the occasional distant call of a curlew. A vague restlessness, and something even akin to despair, had brought her hither. For of course like other young people of the day she had coquetted with the modern doctrine that in times of trouble our great and gentle Mother Nature is the true consoler and comforter; she had read Wordsworth; and she had read Matthew Arnold upon Wordsworth: