“I was in the wrong that night,” broke in Robert penitently, with a rueful shake of the head. “I sadly misjudged ye there, as I learned afterward, but my stubborn pride refused to accept the olive branch ye held out to me. Ye see,” he explained frankly, “’twas my unreasoning wounded pride and anger, and my disappointment which blinded me to all sense of right and justice. I realized after that ye were my friends and that ye resented the damning insult put upon me at Glencairn Hall.” He paused a moment, a frown of bitterness wrinkling his brow. Presently he looked up and holding out his hand again with one of the old magnetic smiles, said, “An’ ye have forgiven my ingratitude, an’ are come noo to see me! I thank ye.” “’Tis all forgot. I forgave you at the time,” responded the Duke cordially. “I could not hold resentment against you.” He turned to his daughter, who was partly concealed in the embrasure of the deep window. “Nancy, child, speak to Robert.” She came slowly forward with hand outstretched, a faint flush dyeing her creamy skin, or perhaps it was the reflection of the pink satin gown she was wearing beneath the long velvet cloak, which, becoming unhooked, had slipped down off her shoulders. Robert rose to his feet, and his black, gloomy eyes lighted up with pleasure as they rested upon the dainty vision of loveliness before him. Lady Nancy had always reminded him of Mary Campbell, and to-day the resemblance was more striking than ever. For beneath the large leghorn with its waving, black plumes, her golden hair so like Mary’s, for the once unpowdered, glittered in all its beauty. Perhaps my Lady Nancy had remembered the likeness and had purposely heightened it by forgetting to use the powder which had hitherto covered the golden curls at all times. As she stood there with a wistful look upon her face, it was easy to perceive the resemblance to the timid dairymaid who, in borrowed finery, had created such a sensation at the Duchess of Athol’s “at home” three years before. “Lady Nancy, forgive my rudeness in not greeting you sooner,” he exclaimed fervently. “I am so glad we are reconciled, friends, once more,” she exclaimed impulsively. “It did seem as if you would never relent, you stubborn man,” and she smiled archly into his embarrassed face. “You find me greatly changed, of course,” he remarked after they had discoursed a while upon their journey. She remained silent, but he read the sympathy shining in her blue eyes. “We read of your illness in town,” explained the Duke, “and believe me, Robert, we are deeply sorry for your affliction. But I trust the vigor of your constitution will soon set you on your feet again,” and he gave him a cheery smile of encouragement. Robert shook his head gloomily. “My health is, I think, flown from me forever,” he replied sadly, “altho’ I am beginning to crawl about the house, and once, indeed, have I been seen outside my cottage door.”