“Robbie lad,” continued Mary earnestly, “ye—ye maun take Jean close to your heart. Ye maun love her fondly for the bairns’ sake and—for her own, too, for she is a good, kind wife to ye, and ye’ll all—be very happy yet, I ken weel.” He slipped down from his chair to his knees and buried his tear-stained face in her lap. “When ye go, Mary,” he murmured brokenly, “I’ll never know peace and happiness again.” She let him weep on in silence. Presently he raised his head and looked at her. “Ye dinna’ ken, lassie, how I have hungered for a sight of your dear face—a word from your sweet lips, this last year.” He clung to her passionately. “An’ noo in a few minutes,” he continued in anguish, “ye will pass out o’ my life forever and I maun live on here—desolate—and heart-broken.” “Nay, nay!” she cried reproachfully. “Dinna’ say that, laddie, not alone, not alone,” and she looked compassionately at the door of the kitchen where Jean sat in patient misery holding her bairn to her aching heart. At that moment Gilbert softly opened the door and told them that they would have to start at once, that the storm would not let up and that they must catch the boat at Greenock that night. “Ye had better say good-by, noo,” and he closed the door quietly behind him. They looked at each other, too dazed for words. Then she started to rise to her feet, but he clasped her hands tightly, though she did not feel the pain, and pressed her into the seat again. “Not yet, not yet, Mary!” he gasped. “I canna’ let ye go just yet. ’Tis like tearing my heart out by its roots.” “Ye mustna’ greet so, laddie,” said Mary, frightened by the vehemence of his sorrow. “’Tis all my fault,” he moaned, “all thro’ my sinful weakness that ye are made to suffer noo, all my fault.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Sh! dearie!” she remonstrated softly. “Dinna’ blame yoursel’. If we suffer noo, we must na’ forget how happy we have been, and we were happy, weren’t we, laddie?” and she smiled in fond reminiscence, then continued a trifle unsteadily, “An—an hour’s happiness is worth a year of pain, for when we get sad an’ lonely, we can live it all over again, canna’ we?” She paused and sighed pathetically. “Only it—it isna’ real, is it, laddie?” A sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to her throat and look away with quivering lips. Then she went on in plaintive, pleading gentleness, “Ye will sometimes think of me—way up—in the Highlands, won’t ye, dearie? It willna’ wrong—Jean, for—soon your Mary will be—in Heaven, in her castle grand.”