“Oh, Robert, my love, have I lost ye again?” she thought dully. “I knew it was only a dream, too sweet to last.” There was a choking sensation in her throat, but she did not weep. As in a horrid dream she heard the sharp metallic voice hissing in her ear, “He is my husband, Mary Campbell. You must give him up to me.” She roused herself out of the lethargy into which she had fallen, and unclasping her hands, she wearily pushed back her curls from her brow and fixed her large pathetic eyes on Jean, who instinctively shrank back before the speechless despair of that helpless gaze. “But ye have no claim on Robbie noo, Jean,” she faltered slowly, “since your irregular marriage was publicly dissolved.” She paused and her pale lips quivered. “Why have ye come here noo to disturb him?” she asked with infinite pathos. “He is happy, so happy noo. Dinna destroy that happiness; go awa’; leave him to me. Ye took him from me once; dinna separate us again.” Her voice broke and a hard sob choked her utterance. A great pity welled up in Jean’s heart for the stricken child, but she steeled herself against it and remained sullenly quiet. Presently Mary spoke again. “I hae nothing in this world, Jean, and I love him so,” she said with dreamy wistfulness, “better than life itsel’. We have loved each ither for years, an’ that love has grown stronger an’ stronger as each year passed by, till noo it’s part o’ my very being.” Her voice rose to passionate pleading. “Oh, what is your weak fancy compared to such a love, Jean Armour?” she asked piteously. “Oh, I tell you I canna give him up to you again.” She sank down convulsively on the high-backed bench under the balcony, her form quivering with low heart-breaking sobs. Tears of sympathy slowly filled Jean’s eyes as she watched the grief-stricken girl before her, but with an angry frown she hardened her heart and forced herself to think of her own wrongs and pitiable condition. “You must give him up!” she answered harshly, “and to-night.” She paused a moment to watch the brilliant crowd within the drawing-room, passing and repassing each other with slow, stately bearing as they walked with ease and grace through the dignified measures of the minuet. By and by she turned to the drooping form and spoke again. “My God, girl, don’t you suppose I too love him!” she exclaimed passionately. “Why have I tramped mile after mile, half starving, subjected to all kinds of insults, struggling to reach here to see him, if it were not for that love?” Mary slowly raised her head and looked at her in reproachful sadness. “Your love has only brought him, an’ all of us, sorrow and disgrace,” she said with pathetic simplicity. “He never loved ye, Jean Armour, ye ken that weel.”