“Here are £5, lad. Take the note and to-morrow set out for Brow,” and the Duke held out the note for his acceptance, but he sat with averted gaze in the proud silence of keen disappointment. “Do not refuse, Robert,” pleaded Jean softly. “’Tis only a loan.” Slowly he took the money and folded it between his fingers. “Thank ye, my lord,” he said quietly. “I will accept it, for I am in sore need of it at this moment.” “That’s right, my lad,” he said heartily. “What is a friend for if he cannot extend or receive a favor?” and he turned to help his daughter into her cloak. Quickly Robert pressed the money into Jean’s hand and whispered to her, “Take it at once to Gilbert and bid him hasten to Mossgiel before it is too late to save the roof over mother’s head.” “But, Robert——” she protested, but he would not listen to her. “Do ye not see ’tis near sundown of the second day?” he told her impatiently, “and Gilbert will have to ride fast if he would get to Mossgiel before night overtakes him; noo hasten, Jean.” Still she lingered, reluctant to go. “Oh, lad, this money is for you; it means your health, our happiness. It isn’t right to——” “We have got a roof over our head, Jean,” he interrupted sternly. “We maist keep one over my mother and sister as weel. We will nae starve. There are only £4 due your father. Keep out one for our present needs. Noo go, lass, go.” Thus commanded, she hurried to the chamber where Gilbert sat in despairing solitude, his head held wearily between his hands, and conveyed to him the glad intelligence. And soon he was speeding furiously over the dusty road toward home, his face aglow with joy and eagerness. When Jean returned to the room she found Souter and Eppy there gayly chatting with the Duke and Lady Nancy, who were evidently much surprised to find their old friend Eppy at last married. “I am so glad to see you here, Lady Nancy,” gushed Eppy effusively. “You must come and see us before you return to Edinburgh. I live on the estate adjoining this farm.” He drew the smiling girl to the window and pointed out the beauties of MacDougall House. “He is poor,” she whispered, “but he is of noble birth, a MacDougall of Lorne. Souter!” she called aloud to her husband, who was looking exceedingly important as he stood balancing himself on his toes, his hands behind his back, a look of supreme self-satisfaction on his face, and listening, with an air of blasé indifference, to the conversation between the old Duke and Robert. As he heard his name called he leisurely turned his head in his wife’s direction. “Souter,” she continued in a tone meant to be careless, but which expressed plainly her feeling of pride, “isn’t it the Marquis of Lorne who is your first cousin?” “What’s that, Souter?” asked Robert incredulously.