He raised his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “How can ye ask me that, my lady,” he answered, “when ye declared to me in your last letter that you meant to preserve my epistles with a view, sooner or later, to expose them to the pillory of derision and the rocks of criticism?” And a look of resentment gleamed in his eyes. “I protest, Mr. Burns,” she cried reproachfully. “I have, indeed, preserved your letters, but they will never leave my possession; they are cherished as the dearest treasures of my life.” He sighed and remained silent for a space. From the kitchen came the sound of children’s voices. He listened to it a moment, then turned to Lady Nancy, a look of resolution in his face. “Lady Nancy,” he said firmly, “I canna’ write to ye in sincerity. I have a wife and family, an’ I have given my word to Jean, and while I dare to sin, I dare not to lie, else madam I could perhaps too truly join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine. But with one foot in the grave, I have no desire to stir up the old ashes of—friendship to find a living ember. ’Twould be but a weak, fitful burning at best. Nay, ’tis too late noo. Believe me, ’tis best, dear lady.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand again. “An’ noo farewell, Lady Nancy, farewell.” She took his hand and looked into his set, unmoved face, and a sigh of utter disappointment, of patient longing, involuntarily escaped her trembling lips. “If it must be, then farewell,” she answered slowly, a slight tremor in her soft voice. She walked to the door, then turned and fixing her eyes on him, she continued mournfully, “Do not quite forget me, will you, Robert? Let the scenes of nature remind you of Nancy. In winter remember the dark shades of her life, for there are plenty; in summer, the warmth of her friendship; in autumn, her glowing wishes to bestow plenty on all, and let spring animate you with hopes that your absent friend may yet surmount the wintry blasts of life, and revive to taste a springtime of happiness.” He bowed his head gravely. “I shall remember ye, Lady Nancy—friend,” he returned feelingly. She gave him one long, lingering look. “Farewell, farewell!” she gasped, and when he raised his head she was gone. He sighed and walked thoughtfully to the window. “The past and all its pleasures will soon be but a dim memory,” he muttered grimly, “as one by one the connecting links which bound me to it are severed forever.” He paused and watched her as she joined her father in the garden, and a quizzical look flashed across his face. “Faith!” he muttered with a little smile, “who would believe the time would come when lovely women would plead in vain for the favors o’ Rob Burns. Och! Robbie, ye are indeed fit only for the grave,” and he turned away from the window in earthly meditation. CHAPTER XXVI