The thought hardly needed expression. It was present in the minds of each of us; and gathering round the fire we took counsel together. That the lad was in sore need we agreed; but how best to help him was the difficulty. Should the dragoons come to the house we knew that their search would be a thorough one, for though Lag’s compact with Jean still held so far as the safety of herself, her daughter, and her husband was concerned, we knew that it would be of no avail in the case of this fugitive. And, further, there was the question of my own presence there, hitherto undiscovered. The kindly wisdom of a woman’s mind was expressed by Jean: "At ony rate there is naething to be done in the meantime but wait and let the lad rest. Maybe after he has had a sleep he will no’ be quite so doited, and be mair able to tell us something aboot himsel’." "Ye’re richt, woman," said Andrew. "Meantime, I’ll awa’ doon the road, and see if there’s ony troopers aboot. And you, Bryden, had better gang up to the high field and coont the sheep. Ye’d best be oot o’ the road if the troopers should come aboot." It was partly from solicitude for her welfare and partly for love’s sweet sake that I said to Jean, "And what of Mary? May she come with me?" "Ay!" said her mother, "she micht as weel; but if naething happens, ye’d best come doon within sicht o’ Daldowie at dinner-time. If the road is clear, ye’ll see a blanket hanging oot in the stack-yard." Little loth, Mary and I took our departure. As we went we talked of the stranger, but very soon our thoughts glided into other channels; and ere we had reached the high field, the great drab world with all its miseries had been forgotten and we were living in our own kingdom of love. We found a sheltered nook and sat us down. "Why do you love me?" said Mary suddenly, crossing her pretty ankles and smoothing her gown meditatively over her knees. "Because you are the fairest and the sweetest lassie in the whole wide world "--and I kissed her. "That’s awfu’ nice--but I doot it’s no true. There maun be far bonnier lassies than me. At the best I’m only a wild rose. An’ I’d rather you loved me for my soul than for the beauty ye see in me. That will a’ wither by and by, and maybe your love will wither then tae. But if ye love me for my soul it will blossom and grow worthier in the sunshine o’ your love, and a love like that can never dee." "And why, my little philosopher," I asked, challenging her, "do you love me? I am all unworthy." "No, no!" she cried--her eyes gleaming. "I love you, because--because"--she halted, and ticked the words off upon her fingers: "Because you are brave, and big, and awfu’ kind, and no ill-looking, and because your blue-grey trusty een kindle a fire in my hert. No, no! That’s a’ wrong. I love you because--juist because you are you. A puir reason maybe--but a woman’s best."