Gilbert, with his soul in his eyes, feasted on the pathetic loveliness of the sweet face beside him, gazing wistfully toward Mauchline, and his aching heart yearned to clasp her to his breast, to tell her of his love, to plead for her pity, her love, herself, for he felt he would rather die than give her up to another. He drew closer to her. “What is the matter, Gilbert?” asked Mary anxiously, noting his pale face. “Are ye in pain?” “Aye, Mary, in pain,” he answered passionately. “Such pain I’ll hope ye’ll never know.” He bowed his head. “I’m so sorry, lad,” she replied innocently. “I wish I could help ye,” and she looked compassionately at the suffering man. He raised his head suddenly and looked into her eyes. “Are ye goin’ to marry Robert this summer, when he returns?” he asked abruptly, his voice husky with emotion. “Aye, if he wishes it,” answered Mary simply, wondering why he looked so strangely white. “He has been gone a year, ye ken,” continued Gilbert hoarsely. “Suppose he has changed and no langer loves ye?” She looked at him with big, frightened eyes. She had never thought of that possibility before. What if he did no longer love her? she thought fearfully. She looked about her helplessly. She felt bewildered, dazed; slowly she sank down on the rocky earth, her trembling limbs refusing to support her. Her fair head drooped pathetically, like a lily bent and bruised by the storm. “If Robert doesna want me any more,” she murmured after a pause, a pathetic little catch in her voice, “if he loves someone else better than he does his Highland Mary, then I—I——” “Ye’ll soon forget him, Mary,” interrupted Gilbert eagerly, his heart throbbing with hope. She raised her eyes from which all the light had flown and looked at him sadly, reproachfully. “Nay, lad, I wouldna care to live any longer,” she said quietly. “My heart would just break,” and she smiled a pitiful little smile which smote him like a knife thrust. He caught her two hands in his passionately and pressed them to his heart with a cry of pain. “Dinna mind what I said, lass,” he cried, conscience stricken; “dinna look like that. I dinna mean to grieve ye, Mary, I love ye too well.” And almost before he realized it he had recklessly, passionately, incoherently told her of his love for her, his jealousy of his brother, his grief and pain at losing her. Mary gazed at him in wonder, scarcely understanding his wild words, his excited manner.