Robert mechanically closed the door behind her and walked slowly to the dresser. Taking from it a bottle of ink and a quill, he carried them to the table, and placing them upon it, sank heavily in a chair. Long he sat there, pen in hand, the victim of the profoundest melancholy, the deepest despair. The thought that it was his own fault, his indifference to consequences, his recklessness, his weak, sinful folly, that had plunged himself and others into the awful abyss of grief and sorrow, was like the bitterness of death to him. As he sat there with drawn and haggard face, while bitter regret gnawed deeply at his conscience, the plaintive tones of Mary’s voice came through the window, singing softly: “Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?” A groan of agony escaped the grief-stricken man at the sound of the voice, which was sweeter than all else in the world to him. “Mary, my lost Highland Mary!” he cried aloud, “how can I give ye up forever?” and throwing himself across the table he wept bitter tears of anguish and remorse. “How can ye chant, ye little birds, An’ I sae weary, fu’ o’ care?” continued the sweet voice in mournful cadence. Softly the words floated to the ears of the sorrowing man, like the echo of his own harrowing thoughts. As Mary reached the open window she paused and gazed into the room eagerly. As she sees her lover sitting there so silent and alone, her smile is very sweet and tender. “Dear laddie; asleep,” she whispers softly. “He must be o’er tired after his hard day’s work. God bless my laddie,” and with a smile of ineffable sweetness, she wafted a kiss to the bowed head and quickly passed on, wending her lonely way back to Castle Montgomery, while the man sitting there in agonized silence, with clenched teeth and tense muscles, slowly raised his head to listen, in heart-broken silence, to her sweet voice floating back to him in silvery melody, as she took up the broken thread of her song: “Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flow’ring thorn. Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed, never to return.” The song died away in the distance. “God pity her, God pity me,” he murmured brokenly. CHAPTER VIII From the huge, low ceilinged kitchen of Castle Montgomery, which was ablaze with light, came the gladsome sound of mirth and revelry, for “Some merry countre folks togither did convene, To burn their nits and pou’ their stocks, and hold their hallowe’en, For blythe that night.” For miles around the annual invitations had been sent broadcast, and to-night the capacious kitchen was taxed to its utmost. It was, however, a singularly good-natured, if over-hilarious, gathering that had assembled to do justice to old Bess’s cooking, and to test their fate through the medium of the many charms so well known to all the peasantry.