After admiring the baby in the trundle bed the two brothers talked of the dear ones in Mossgiel, and the many changes time had wrought in the lives of them all; spoke with tenderness of the sister who had recently been married—and dwelt with anxious concern on the struggles of their younger brother, who had left home to branch out for himself. For a time they forgot their own troubles, and Robert plied his brother with many questions concerning the welfare of all his old friends and neighbors, while Gilbert told him all the gossip of the village, of the prosperity of some of the lads, and the unfortunate situations of many of the others, thus leading up to the recital of their own troubles since Robert had left his home. He listened sorrowfully to the tale of hardship and unceasing toil which brought such little recompense, but not by word or look did he betray his own blighted hopes and gloomy prospects. Finally they had exhausted every subject save one, and that one had been uppermost in the minds of both, but each had avoided the subject with a shrinking dread. No news of the little dairymaid had come to Robert for almost a year, and the thought that possibly she was ill or dead—or—and a hundred conjectures racked his brain and froze the eager questions that trembled on his lips. Gilbert must have read the longing in his brother’s heart, for, after a troubled glance at the dark yearning face gazing at him so beseechingly, he looked down at his toil-worn hands and awkwardly shifted one knee over the other. Presently he spoke. “Mary is still at Colonel Montgomery’s,” he observed, making an effort to speak lightly. “I heard she had left Mrs. Dunlop’s,” replied Robert feverishly, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Aye,” sighed Gilbert. “She grew tired o’ the city and longed for the stillness, the restfulness of country life once more, so she came back to us and took her old place in the dairy. Poor lass,” and he looked thoughtfully out of the window and sadly watched the glorious sunset tinting the distant hills in a blaze of golden light. “An’—an’ is she well—is she happy?” murmured Robert in a soft, hushed voice. Gilbert did not answer for a moment. Presently he roused himself and slowly let his gaze wander back till it rested on his brother’s wistful face. “Can ye bear a shock, brother?” he asked quietly. Robert suddenly stiffened and his eyes grew wide and staring. He gripped the sides of the chair as a wave of sudden dizziness dulled his understanding. Presently it passed away, and like one in a dream he whispered hoarsely, “Tell me the worst, Gilbert; is—is she dead?” He closed his eyes and waited with breathless stillness for the answer. “Thank God, not that!” replied Gilbert feelingly. Robert breathed a sigh of relief. “But she is very ill, an’ I ken she hasna’ long on earth noo. The doctors say there is no hope for her,” and he bit his lips to keep back the rising tears.