A year has passed, and once again it is the month of May. My little flower of the heather, transported from the hill-sides of Galloway and set in the kindlier atmosphere of this southern clime, has blossomed into a flower of rare beauty. She has not a peer among the ladies of Warwick, and that is saying much. Sometimes, as we sit together on the green lawn that slopes down to the quiet Avon, and think of all the things that befell in the days that are dead, we wonder if they were all a dream. Yet in spite of what she suffered among them, Mary sometimes whispers to me that her heart is sick for the grey hills of Galloway, for the sting of the wind on her cheeks, for the cry of the whaup in her ears; and I find it hard to comfort her. But I think she will never again be sick at heart for the hills of heather, for a new joy has come into her life and mine. A week ago the wonder happened. When, in the early dawn, the good nurse brought me the news as I paced in a fever up and down my study floor, I was all ardent, as any man would be, to see my Mary and her child on the instant. But the nurse bade me curb my impatience, telling me that Mary was asleep. So I made my way out to the lawn, and, leaning on the retaining wall, gazed down upon the Avon. Early roses wet with dew were pouring their incense into the still air, and I plucked me a handful for Mary. As I stood by the wall with the flowers in my hand I chanced to look up the river towards the bridge, and on it I saw a man upon whose shoulders was a pack. Lighting my pipe, I sat down upon the garden seat with the heap of roses beside me. As I sat there I heard a little voice that I had never heard before. Through the open window, my child was joining its little cry to that of a jubilant bird, and my heart was glad within me and the whole sun-kissed earth was ringing with melody. O Mary mine! The sound of footsteps upon the carriage-drive made me turn, and I saw--Hector. I rushed to him with hands outstretched. "Hector!" I cried, and shook him warmly by the hand. "Ay, it’s me richt eneuch. I got your letter. Ye were wise to write in Latin--but, man, your construction’s awfu’--gey near damnable. Ye should mak’ mair use o’ the ablative absolute. I was pleased tae hear frae ye, though, and things being mair settled up yonder I juist thocht I’d tak’ a daunner into England to pit you richt on ane or twa points o’ syntax. An’ hoo’s your good lady?" "Mary is splendid," I said. "She has just this morning given birth to a daughter." "My best respects to her and my felicitations upon this great event; but I’m sorry--I’ll juist tak’ the road again and gang awa’ hame. I couldna ha’e come at a waur time." "My dear Hector, what do you mean? Mary would never forgive me if I let you go." And, dropping into the language which I knew he loved, I slipped my arm through his and said, "Come awa’ intae the hoose."