A woman versed in the wiles of her sex would not have thrown the glove down so artlessly. Unwittingly she had challenged me to declare my love--and I was sorely tempted to do so: but I hesitated. A riper moment would come, so I answered simply: "Yes, I have seen a bonnier lassie among the hills." "Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at me questioningly, "and what was she daein’ there?" I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little Mistress Curiosity, do not ask too much." She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it with the other as though to rid it of some defilement. I fear the taunting name had given her umbrage. "I think you are a licht-o’-love," she said. "Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn. "What right have you to say such a thing?" "Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha’e me think. Ye lo’ed Margaret Wilson: ye tell me ye’ve seen a bonnier lass amang the hills, and when I found you on the moors you were repeatin’ a lassie’s name ower an’ ower again--and her name wasna Margaret." "I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I exclaimed dubiously. "Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye wadna be here the day. It was that made me tak’ peety on you. I was sorry for the lassie, whaever she micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o’ my ain I should like him to be croonin’ ower my name, as you were daein’ hers. So I ran hame an’ fetched faither, an’ we cairried ye to Daldowie." "And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked, looking at her eagerly. "Oh I ye kept sayin’--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a kind o’ lament." My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins. "It was your name, Mary--yours--and none other. There is no other Mary in my life." She looked at me in amazement--her eyes alight. "Surely ye dinna expect me to believe that? You’d only seen me aince--and hardly spoken to me. It couldna be me ye meant." I made both her hands captive. "Mary, it was. I swear it." She drew her hands sharply away: "Then you had nae richt tae tak’ sic’ a liberty. Ye hardly kent me,"--and she sprang up. "I maun fetch the kye," she cried as she hastened off. I watched her drive them in; then she came for me and led me carefully back to the house. It seemed to me that there was some message tingling from her heart to mine through the arm with which she supported me--but she spoke no word. As we drew near the door, her mother came out to meet us and catching sight of the forgotten chaplet, exclaimed: "Mary, whatever are ye daein’ wi’ a string o’ daisies in your hair? Ye look like a play-actress." Laughingly Mary removed the wreath. "It was only a bairn’s ploy," she said; then to my great cheer, she slipped the flowers into her bosom. "Come awa’ in," said Jean: and she assisted me to my place by the fire.