The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes, stilling the low voice, while frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like knives suddenly drawn from dark sheaths—yet toward the north over Greenock the sky was clearing, and streaks and beams of gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing promise of a clear and radiant sunset. Mary’s face brightened as she watched the sunbeams struggling through the lightened clouds, and she went on dreamily, in the prolonged lull of the storm: “My home there will be so fine, much finer than the castle in Edinburgh.” She smiled tenderly and let her hand slip down from his head to his heaving shoulder, where it rested in loving quiet. “How happy I was that night,” she mused; “an’ the sweet gown was so pretty I—hated to take it off, but it wasna’ mine.” She paused with quivering lips. “But—but—I was going to buy one the next day for my own, wasna’ I? A white one—all smooth and soft and shiny—for—for my wedding gown.” Her voice died away in a hushed, mournful quaver. “Don’t, don’t, Mary!” sobbed Robert unrestrainedly. “I canna’ bear to think of that noo, noo when I maun give ye up forever.” He stroked her face and covered her pale, thin, toil-worn hands with heart-breaking kisses. Presently he grew calmer. “I shall never forget that night, Mary, that night with its pleasures and pain,” he went on with dreamy pathos. “It is ever in my thoughts; e’en in my dreams your dear bonnie face haunts me with its sweet, pathetic smile, and your tender lips seem to say, ‘laddie, ye were not true to your vows, ye have broken my heart.’” She gave a little cry of pain. “No, no, laddie, I never thought that,” she cried, and she looked at him with gentle, pitying eyes. “I wad try to speak, to implore your forgiveness for the misery I had caused ye,” continued Robert, his husky voice heard faintly above the wail of the wind, which shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a midnight prowler striving to creep in to steal and plunder. “And in my dumb despair and anguish I would clutch at your floating garments only to have them vanish into air, and I would awake to find myself—alone—with my bitter remorse and sorrow.” A low, choked sob broke from his hollow breast—he covered his face with his hands. “Can ye ever forgive me?” he murmured. Mary regarded him with infinite compassion, a heroic smile on her tired, quivering lips. “Freely do I forgive everything, laddie,” she replied, “an’ when I am gone I want ye to remember always that Mary Campbell had only love, pity and forgiveness in her heart for ye.” She raised her trembling hands solemnly. “May God bring peace to your troubled heart, laddie, and may your future dreams be filled with joy and happiness, of love and prosperity.” [Illustration: “The door opened and Jean quietly entered the room.”]