“And was that Miss Mary’s question? I thought she was a more sensible friend to both of us.” “Never a better,” said he. “She offered her all and----” “What!” cried Nan, anger flaring in her face, “are you in the market too?” He stammered an excuse. “It was not a gift,” said he, “but to you and me; and that, indeed, was as much as Old Islay meant, to give him his due.” “Old Islay, Old Islay!” she repeated, turning her face from him to hide its sudden remorse. “Islay, Islay,” she repeated to herself. He noticed the hand she leaned upon, so soft, so white, so beautiful, trembled in its nest among the heather. He was so taken up with it there among the heather, so much more beautiful than the fairest flower, that he did not notice how far he had given up his secret. He caught the hand and fondled it, and still she repeated to herself like a coronach, “Islay, Islay.” For once more the rude arm was round her waist in Maam, and the bold soldier was kissing her on the lips. Gilian stood up and “Oh!” he cried, as he looked from her to the landscape, and back from the landscape to her again, “Oh!” he cried, “I wondered, when you were gone in Edinburgh, what was wanting here. When Miss Mary told me you were come home, I felt it was the first time the sun had shone, and the birds had found a song.” “Young Islay!” she still was thinking, hearing the dreamer but to compare him with the practitioner she knew. And then the dreamer, remembering that his question was still unput, uttered it shyly and awkwardly. “Do you love me?” said he. It was for this she had fled from Young Islay, who knew his mind and had no fear to speak it! “Do I love you?” she repeated. “Are you not too hasty?” “Am I?” he said, alarmed. And she sighed. “Oh yes, of course you are! You know so little of me. You have taken me from my father’s house by a ladder at night, and share a moor with me, and you know I have no friend to turn to in the world but yourself. You have eyes and ears, and still you must be asking if it is not hasty to find out if I love you. It is a wonder you have the boldness to say the word itself.” “Well,” he pursued gawkily, though he perceived her drift clearly, “here I am, and I do love you. Oh, what a poor word it is, that love, for the fire I feel inside me. There is no word for that, there is nothing but a song for it that some day I must be making. Love, quo’ she; oh, I could say that truly of the heather kissing your hand, ay, of the glaur your feet might walk on upon a wet day!” “My best respects to you, Master Gilian!” said Nan. “You have the fine tongue in your head after all. What a pity we have been wasting such a grand opportunity for it here!” and there was an indulgence in her eye, though now and then the numb regret of a blunder made came upon her spirit. “Will you come down with me?” he went on, far too precipitate for her fancy. “When?” she asked, thoughtlessly robbing a heather-tuft bell by bell with idle fingers.