“Don’t say that, father!” she cried reproachfully. “No matter how low he may have fallen, and I protest that fame has exaggerated his misconduct woefully, we people of Scotland cannot forget nor overlook the priceless treasure he has put into our thankless hands, a treasure that will be handed down to posterity with ever increasing regard, admiration and love for its author,” and her flashing blue eyes, that had so often reminded Robert of Mary Campbell, and which had formed a closer tie of comradeship between them, again sought and lingered upon the engraved likeness of her hero. The singular beauty of Lady Nancy Gordon was illumined by that happy expression of countenance which results from the union of cultivated tastes and superior understanding with the finest affections of mind, and the influence of such attractions had been keenly felt by the ardent poet, who was not altogether unaware of the impression he had made upon her heart, which was as susceptible to the charms of wit and intellect as was his own. As she stood gazing up at the picture, she thought with an odd little smile how she had openly sought for his favors, delighted in his apparent preference for her society even while she told herself she knew he was only attracted by her brilliancy—that she appealed to his intellect—charmed him by her wit, her cleverness. No, she had never touched his heart, she thought with a sigh, and a look of sadness came into her thoughtful eyes. “I fear, Nancy, that Robert still harbors feelings of resentment against us,” protested the Duke after a pause. “I know he would rather not see us.” But Lady Nancy overruled his objection. “Then all the more reason for our assuring him of our friendship and asking his forgiveness for any offense we have unintentionally offered him.” Seeing all arguments were useless, the old Duke finally consented, and with a hug and a kiss, Nancy left him and proceeded to make arrangements for their speedy departure for Ayrshire. CHAPTER XXV The next morning dawned bleak and dismal. A damp, penetrating mist hung over the farm like a pall, and the chill of the rain-laden air penetrated into the rooms and made itself felt even by the side of the brightest fires. It affected the inmates of Ellisland farm to an alarming extent. They sat gloomily around the hearth idly watching the smoldering peat fire, which failed to send out much warmth—as if it, too, felt the depressing influences which surrounded the little household and which had plunged them all into such a slough of despond.