“That’s the end of it!” said Gilian bitterly, as he came wholly into the room. His face, shone on by the sun that struck above the tall lands opposite from fiery clouds, was white to the lips. Miss Mary looked up into his eyes, mourning in her very inmost for his torture. “I would say ‘fair wind to her,’ my dear, and a good riddance,” said she, and yet without conviction in her tone. “I will say ‘fair wind’ readily,” he answered, “but I cannot be forgetting. I know she likes--she loves me still.” Miss Mary showed her pity in her face, but nothing at all had she to say. “You are not doubting it, are you?” he cried eagerly; and, still unnoticed in the doorway, the Paymaster grimaced his contempt, but his brother, touched by some influence inexplicable, put the poem in his pocket and delayed the entry. “Are you doubting?” again cried the lad, determined on his answer but dreading a denial. “It is not your bowl-money the bairns are gathering at the Cross,” said Miss Mary simply. “True,” he acknowledged; “but she went because she must. She loves me still, I’m telling you; she has my heather at her heart!” Miss Mary understood. She looked at her dreamer and stifled a sigh. Then she saw her brothers in the doorway, silent, and her hand went down and met his and fondled it for his assurance as on the day he first stood, the frightened stranger, on that floor, and she had sheltered his shyness in the folds of her bombazine gown. THE END