Jean regarded her advance with sullen suspicion. “Two years ago I was an invited guest here at Athol Castle,” she sneered bitterly, “while you were a barefooted dairymaid in Mossgiel. Now look at us. You are the lady and I am an outcast, singing on the streets for my daily bread.” Mary looked at her in amazement. “But what has happened?” she asked wonderingly. “My father has turned me into the street,” answered Jean dully. “Had ye done wrong?” inquired Mary timidly. Jean laughed mirthlessly. “Wrong?” she repeated, “aye, if refusing to marry an old man I detested be wrong.” “An’ your father turned ye out for that?” “For that,” she replied stonily, “and because I refused to give up Robert Burns.” “But—but ye gave him up long ago, Jean, of your own free will,” faltered Mary, an awful fear clutching at her heart. “An’ your father wrote Robert,” she continued breathlessly, “that ye willingly, gladly renounced all claims on him, that ye even hated his name, an’ that ye hoped never to see or hear o’ him again.” A look of hatred spread over the face of the other. “My father lied when he wrote that,” she cried with bitter intensity, “for I told him I would never renounce my marriage to Robert, irregular though it was, and I never will. He is my husband,” and she glared defiantly at the shrinking girl, who was looking at her with searching, frightened eyes. For a moment the poor child stood there like a lifeless figure as the words stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and dizzy. There was a rushing sound in her ears, the garden swung round dizzily before her eyes, yet she stood still, speaking no word, although a quiver of agony passed over her pallid face.