After Mrs. Burns left the room Jean came boldly out from her hiding place and stood before the startled couple, who gazed at her in amazement. She looked at them insolently, a sneer on her full lips. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Burns,” she interrupted sarcastically. The color slowly faded from his ruddy face. Was she going to expose that shameful page in his past history to this innocent child? Would she dare, could she be so reckless, so shameless? he asked himself fearfully. “I thought ye had gone,” he said, dangerously calm, stepping up to her. “I could not go till I had delivered a message,” she explained, dropping her eyes before the determined light in his. “What is it?” he asked, puzzled by her tone and manner. “It is of great importance and for your ears alone,” she replied glibly. “I’m sure this lady—Miss Campbell, is it not?—will not mind leaving us for a moment,” and she smiled amiably into Mary’s innocent inquiring face. He led Mary gently to the door. “It’ll be only for a moment, Mary,” he said quietly. “I dinna’ mind,” she answered brightly. “’Tis near time for me to be going hame, ye ken,” and with a smile she left them together. “Noo, then, what is your message?” he said with calm abruptness, as the door closed. “This!” and she threw back her head defiantly. “You must give up this Mary Campbell.” He looked at her in amazement. “What do ye mean?” he gasped, opening his eyes in bewilderment. “I mean you must make me your wife.” Her pale and agitated face made him wonder if she had gone quite daft. Before he could answer she continued stridently, “You must marry me now, before it is too late, too late to save my name from dishonor and disgrace. Now do you understand?” A look of incredulous horror slowly blanched his face to ashy whiteness. Had he heard aright? Surely she was jesting; it could not be possible—and yet, why not? His haggard eyes searched her colorless face as though he would read her very soul. Calmly she bore the scrutiny and then, with a groan of anguish, he sank into a chair, weak and trembling. “I canna, I willna, believe,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s a lie, it’s a lie, Jean Armour!” “It’s the truth, I tell you,” she cried passionately, wringing her hands. “What else think you would force me, the rich Belle of Mauchline, to humble my pride and stoop to plead to a poverty-stricken farmer to wed me?” She laughed wildly. “Can it be true, can it be true?” he whispered to himself dully. He felt dazed by the suddenness, the total unexpectedness, of the blow. He closed his eyes wearily. What was it she wanted him to do, he could not think. He sat dumbly waiting for her to speak again.