‘She kenned me weel eneuch. She ca’d me by my ain as weel ’s ither names.’ ‘Ye’re jist croonin my arguyment, Francie! Yer mither’s jist perishin o’ drink! She drinks and drinks, and, by what I hear, cares for noucht else. A’s upo’ the ro’d to ruin in her and aboot her. She hasna the brains noo, gien ever she hed them, to guide hersel. Is Satan to grip her ’cause ye winna be neebour til her and haud him aff o’ her? I ken ye’re a guid son sae far as lat her du as she likes and tak ’maist a’ the siller, but that’s what greases the exle o’ the cairt the deevil’s gotten her intil! I ken weel she hesna been muckle o’ a mither til ye, but ye’re her son whan a’s said. And there can be naething ye’re callt upon to du, sae lang as she’s i’ the grup o’ the enemy, but rugg her oot o’ ’t. Gien ye dinna that, ye’ll never be oot o’ ’s grup yersel. Ye come oot thegither, or ye bide thegither.’ Gordon sat speechless. ‘It’s _im_possible!’ he said at length. ‘Francie,’ rejoined Kirsty, very quietly and solemnly, ‘ye’re yer mother’s keeper; ye’re her neist neebour: are ye gauin to du yer duty by her, or are ye not?’ ‘I canna; I daurna; I’m a cooard afore her.’ ‘Gien ye lat her gang on to disgrace yer father, no to say yersel--and that by means o’ what’s yours and no hers, I’ll say mysel ’at ye’re a cooard.’ ‘Come hame wi’ me and tak my pairt, and I’ll promise ye to du my best.’ ‘Ye maun tak yer ain pairt; and ye maun tak her pairt tu against hersel.’ ‘It’s no to be thoucht o’, Kirsty!’ ‘Ye winna?’ ‘I canna my lane. I winna try ’t. It wud be waur nor useless.’ Kirsty rose, turning her face homeward. Gordon sprang to his feet. She was already three yards from him. ‘Kirsty! Kirsty!’ he cried, going after her. She went straight for home, never showing by turn of head, by hesitation of step, or by change of carriage, that she heard his voice or his feet behind her. When they had thus gone two or three hundred yards, he quickened his pace, and laid his hand on her arm. She stopped and faced him. He dropped his hand, grew yet whiter, and said not a word. She walked on again. Like one in a dream he followed, his head hanging, his eyes on the heather. She went on faster. He was falling behind her, but did not know it. Down and down the hill he followed, and only at the earth-house lifted his head: she was nearly over the opposite brae! He had let her go! He might yet have overtaken her, but he knew that he had lost her.