With mock solemnity I laid my hand upon my heart and swore I spoke the truth, but she only laughed. "Tell me," she said, "are they bonnie? I’ve heard tell they are." "Well, Mary," I answered, "there may be bonnie lassies in England, but I’ve seen far bonnier ones in Scotland." She plucked a daisy and held its yellow heart against her chin. "Oh ay," she said, "I’ve heard that the Wigtown lassies are gey weel-faured. Nae doot, when ye were a sodger there, ye had a sweetheart." "No," I said, "I had no sweetheart in Wigtown, although I saw a very bonnie lass there." "I knew it, I knew it," she cried. "And maybe ye helped her to make a daisy chain?" "No, Mary," I said, "I never had a chance. I saw her only for an hour." "But ye loved her?" and she looked at me quickly. "No," I answered, "I had no right to love her. If I had loved her I should have tried to save her. She’s dead now, but I do not think I can ever forget her." "Oh," she said, "then you canna forget her. You’re never likely to love anither lassie? But ye speak in riddles. Wha was she? Tell me." It was a hard thing to do, but there was nothing for it. So I told her the story of Margaret Wilson. She listened breathlessly with mounting colour. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat with awe and pity gathering in her face. When I had finished she turned from me in silence and looked into the distance. Then she sprang to her feet and faced me, with glowing eyes. "And you were there! You!" she cried. "You helped the murderers! O God! I wish I had left you on the moor to die!" This was my condemnation: this my punishment; that this sweet girl should turn from me in horror, hating me. I bent my head in shame. She stood above me, and when I dared to lift my eyes I saw that her hands, which she had clasped, were trembling. "Mary," I murmured, and at my voice she started as though my lips polluted her name, "Mary--you cannot know the agony I have suffered for what I did, nor how remorse has bitten into my heart torturing me night and day. It was for that I became a deserter." "You deserted, and put yoursel’ in danger o’ death because you were sorry," she said slowly, as though weighing each word. "Yes," I answered, "that is why I deserted," and I looked into her eyes, from which the anger had faded. "I’m sorry I was so hasty. I didna mean to be cruel. Forget what I said. I meant it at the meenute, but I dinna mean it noo," and she held out both her hands impulsively. I clasped them, and drew her down beside me again, and she did not resist. For a moment or two she sat in silence pulling at the blades of grass around her. Then she laid a hand upon my arm, and said quietly: "Tell me aboot her again. Was she really very bonnie?" "Yes," I replied, "very bonnie." "The bonniest lassie you ever saw?" "Yes, the bonniest lassie I had ever seen till then." "Oh," she exclaimed, "then you’ve seen a bonnier? And where did ye see her?"