“Ay, for a whiley,” answered Mary listlessly, leaning back against the heavy padding of the seat, with eyes heavy and sad. She had had no opportunity as yet to tell Robert the dread news, and her heart was filled with misgivings as she thought of Jean waiting patiently in the garden for him to come to her. She started up suddenly, resolved to tell him, but the sight of his happy face, and the presence of Mrs. Dunlop, cooled her courage, and she leaned back again silent and miserable. If she didn’t tell him to-night what would Jean do? With her usual unselfishness she gave no thought to self. She was miserably unhappy, but she would not allow herself to think of her own sufferings. Her whole thought was of him and the darkness into which he would soon be plunged, and of Jean and her bairns, Robert’s bairns. She sighed quiveringly, and a little pang of jealousy shot through her heart like a breath of fire, but it soon passed away and left only a dull ache that would always be there now, she thought wearily, as they rolled along toward home. She clasped her hands together feverishly. “Should she whisper to him now, tell him all and bid him drive back to Jean?” she asked herself in an agony of indecision. At that moment the carriage stopped at the door of Mrs. Dunlop’s mansion. It was too late now. She gave a little sigh of relief, though her heart was filled with grief and anxiety. Robert escorted her to the door, with loving pride in her daintiness, in her sweet air of refinement. She looked very frail and spirituelle, as she turned to him quietly and bade him good-night. “Has something gone wrong, Mary?” he inquired solicitously, noticing with alarm her wan face, her languid air of weariness. She shook her head slowly, not daring to trust her voice. Mrs. Dunlop put her arm about her fondly. “The lassie is tired, Robert,” she said in her motherly way, “and no wonder. She’ll be as bright as a lark in the morning.” Bidding them both a tender good-night, he turned and ran down the steps, jumped into the carriage, and drove off toward his chambers, whistling softly to himself the tune of “Mary of Argyle.” CHAPTER XVIII