“I’m fair pleased that ye love me, Gilbert,” she answered him in her innocence. “Ye ken I love ye too, for ye’ve been so kind and good to me ever since Robert has been awa’,” and she pressed his hand affectionately. With a groan of despair he released her and turned away without another word. Suddenly she understood, and a great wave of sympathy welled up in her heart. “Oh, Gilbert,” she cried sorrowfully, a world of compassion in her voice. “I understand ye noo, laddie, an’ I’m so sorry, so sorry.” He bit his lips till the blood came. Finally he spoke in a tone of quiet bitterness. “I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise this past year,” he said, “but ’tis all ended noo. Why, ever since he went awa’ I have wished, hoped, and even prayed that Rob would never return to Mossgiel, that ye might forget him and his accursed poetry, and in time would become my wife.” He threw out his hands with a despairing gesture as he finished. “Oh, Gilbert,” she faltered, with tears in her eyes, “I never dreamed ye thought of me in that way. Had I only known, I——” she broke off abruptly and looked away toward the cottage. “Ye see what a villain I have been,” he continued with a bitter smile. “But ye have nothin’ to blame yoursel’ for, Mary. I had no right to think of ye ither than as Robert’s betrothed wife.” “I’m so sorry, lad,” repeated Mary compassionately. Then her downcast face brightened. “Let us both forget what has passed this day, and be the same good friends as ever, wi’na we, Gilbert?” And she held out her hand to him with her old winning smile. “God bless ye, lassie,” he replied brokenly. Quietly they stood there for a few minutes, then with a sudden start they realized that deep twilight had fallen upon them. Silently, stealthily it had descended, like a quickly drawn curtain. Slowly they wended their way back to the cottage. When they reached the door Mary suddenly turned and peered into the deepening twilight. “Listen!” she said breathlessly. “Dinna ye hear a voice, Gilbert?” He listened for a minute. Faintly there came on the still air the distant murmur of many voices. “’Tis only the lads on their way to the village,” he replied quietly. With a little shiver, Mary drew her plaidie closely about her, for the air had grown cool. “I think I’ll hae to be goin’ noo,” she said dejectedly. “He willna be here this night.” “Very well,” answered Gilbert. “I’ll saddle the mare and take ye back. Bide here a wee,” and he left her. She could hardly restrain the disappointed tears, which rose to her eyes.