“Dinna’ stop me, Gilbert!” he panted, and he flung open the door and rushed excitedly into the room where Jean sat in patient meditation. “Jean, get my bonnet and coat, quick, quick!” he commanded with his old-time vehemence. She jumped up pale and frightened and looked questioningly at Gilbert. Quickly he told her of Mary’s illness and Robert’s determination to go to her at once. When he had finished she went to her husband, the tears of ready sympathy in her eyes, for she was not jealous of his love for Mary. She had gotten over that long ago, and laying her hand gently on his arm, she tried to coax him to sit down and listen to them. “They’ll have to pass by here on their way to Greenock,” she told him tenderly. “And ye may be sure, Robert, that Mary will not leave Ayrshire without saying good-by to you.” And so she reasoned with him, while Gilbert joined her in assurances of Mrs. Dunlop’s intention of stopping to see him as she passed the farm. Gradually the wild light in his eyes died down, the tense figure relaxed, and with a sigh of exhaustion he allowed himself to be taken back to his room. “Ye’re sure she’ll not forget to stop here?” he asked with pathetic eagerness. Then he continued with wistful retrospection, “Two years have come and gone and not a word have we spoken to each other since that day we parted in Edinburgh! Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” He spoke so low that none heard him. “Noo, Robert,” said Jean brightly, “you must take your gruel, ’twill give ye strength.” But he made a gesture of repulsion. “Nay, Jean, I canna’ eat noo; ’twould choke me. I think I’ll lay me down to rest.” They soon prepared him for bed. Without a word, he turned his face to the wall and for the rest of the night he lay there with wide, staring, sleepless eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking. CHAPTER XXIV News of Robert’s illness soon reached Edinburgh, along with reports of his misconduct, profligacy, and intemperance, reports which were grossly exaggerated, together with many other slanderous falsehoods. And rumors of his poverty and the destitute condition of his family brought sorrow and anxiety to the hearts of many of his loyal friends, who were only too ready and willing to offer him all the help and assistance that would be needed, but they knew, too, his inflexible pride and independence, and realized how futile would be their offers of friendly assistance.