"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, your father, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me in sore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger to you all, and for your sakes I must go." Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast moved tremulously. "Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o’ danger: that needna’ drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?" Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there’s some English lassie waiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me she whispered, "It maun e’en be as ye will." "Mary," I said, "you wrong me. If you could read my heart you would know what I suffer. I hate to go. I am leaving friendship and love behind me----" I paused, but she did not speak. "Before God," I said, "I shall never forget Daldowie, and--you." Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them gently in mine. "Our lives have touched each other so delicately, that I shall never forget you. Dearest, I love you." She uttered a little startled cry and drew her hands away. "Love you with all the fire of my heart," I said, "and if I succeed in escaping across the border I shall dream always of the day when I may come back and ask you to be my wife. Mary--tell me--have you a little corner in your heart for me?--You have had the whole of mine since first you spoke to me." Her face was a damask rose: her lips curved in a smile, and a dimple danced alluringly on her left cheek: her eyes were lit as though a lamp were hidden in their depths, but all she said was,--"I daur say I can promise ye that." I drew her towards me and took her, gently resisting, into my arms. "O Mary mine," I whispered. Her hand stole up and gently stroked my hair, and as she nestled to me I could feel a wild bird fluttering in her breast. "I love you, Mary," and bending over her dear face I kissed her where the dimple still lingered. "Sweetheart," she murmured, as her arms closed about my neck, and her lips touched mine. The old earth ceased to be: heaven was about us, and above us a high lark sang:--my love was in my arms. A little tremor, as when a leaf is stirred, stole over her. I held her close, and bent to look at her. Twin tears glistened on her eyelids. "Flower o’ the Heather," I whispered, "little sweetheart--what ails you?" She took a long breath--broken like a sigh. "I am feared," she said. "Afraid? dearest, of what?" Her lips were raised to my ear. "Afraid o’ love," she whispered: "for when you kissed me a wee bird flew into my heart and whispered that nae woman ever loved without sorrow." "Dearest," I said. But she stopped me, and continued:--"But I wouldna lose the love for a’ the sorrow that may lie in its heart--for it’s the sorrow that makes the love worth while." "My own Mary," I whispered, "in my arms no sorrow shall ever touch you. I will protect you!"