"My love, my love," she murmured brokenly, "ye canna thwart God." So still she lay that I could hear the beating of my heart. I looked at her sweet face half hidden against my coat. There was upon it a beauty that I had never seen before. Reverence that was half awe swept over me, and I bowed my head, for I had seen into the holy place of a woman’s soul. Suddenly she let her arms fall from my neck, and freeing herself gently from my embrace she seated herself by my side. "I’m sorry," she said gently. "I ha’e spoilt your happy moments wi’ my tears. But they’re no tears o’ sorrow: they’re juist the joy bubbling up frae a heart ower fu’. I can let ye go noo--since I ken ye love me. Love can aye surrender, selfishness aye clings." "Are you sending me away, Mary?" "Oh no! No! No! It’s because I love you I wad ha’e you go. You’re in danger here, and I ken--oh, I ken ye’ll come back." "And now," I answered proudly, "I do not wish to go. I cannot go." "But you’re in danger here. If they find you they’ll kill you." "Beloved," I whispered, "to leave you now would be worse than death." She buried her head on my shoulder, and sat silent. The door had swung back and shown us the kingdom of love with its laughing meadows and enchanted streams. But amid all that beauty each of us had caught a glimpse of the shadow that lay across our lives. Suddenly she lifted her face and gazed at me with troubled, wistful eyes. "I ken ye ought to go: but an ye winna it’s no for me to send you. My heart cries for you, and," she added slowly, "I’ve got a notion. About this time o’ year my faither aye hires a man. Ye could ha’e the place for the askin’. Ye’re strong enough noo to help him, and naebody would ever jalouse that the hired man at Daldowie was Trooper Bryden o’ Lag’s Horse." Her ready wit had found the way out. "Dear little witch," I cried, and kissed her fragrant hair--"You have brought light into the darkness. I shall offer myself to your father, and by faithful service show my gratitude: but more than that I shall ask him for you." Her eyes shone. "Speir at him for the place," she said, "and let the second question bide till ye’ve spoken to mither. Faither loves me--I ken weel: but he’s dour and sometimes contrairy, and winna understand. But mither’s heart is young yet. She’ll help us." "O winsome little wiseacre," I whispered, and held my open arms out to her. She sprang up. "I maun leave you," she said. "I want to be alane--to tell the flowers and the birds my secret, but maist o’ a’ to tell it ower and ower again to masel’. I’ll see ye by and by--and maybe ere then ye’ll ha’e talked to mither." She turned and walked lightly away, crooning a song. I watched her longingly as she went, palpitating with life and love, an angel of beauty, the sun on her hair. For long I sat in a delightful reverie, then I rose and made my way slowly to the house. Mary loved me!--the moor winds sang for me. They knew our secret.