Robert raised his head and regarded his brother in despairing hopelessness. “I ken it weel, brother,” he replied. “And my heart grows sick and weary, waitin’, waitin’, for tidings, be they good or bad. Two lang months have passed since I sent him my collection, an’ still not a word, not a sign. Nae doubt they were thrown in a corner, overlooked an’ neglected.” For a moment he stood there gazing across the fields, his vision blurred by the tears of disappointment which filled his eyes. “Oh, why did Lord Glencairn raise my hopes so high?” he cried passionately, “only to have them dashed to the ground again.” Gilbert remained silent, his eyes cast down. The sight of his brother’s misery touched him keenly. But there was nothing he could say. “I believed him and trusted to his honor, his promise,” continued Robert dejectedly, “an’ for what?” He put on his bonnet and clasping his hands behind him in his characteristic attitude, slowly walked toward the cottage, a prey to his gloomy thoughts. “Be patient, Rob, yet a while,” said Gilbert encouragingly, as he walked along beside him. “Who kens what the morrow will bring forth?” “The morrow?” repeated Robert grimly. “Methinks I’ll ne’er know peace an’ tranquillity again on this earth.” They strode on in silence. As they neared the cottage Gilbert laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, bringing him to a standstill. “Robert,” he said quietly and firmly, “I want to speak to ye about Mary.” Robert turned his head away abruptly. “What of her?” he asked in a low voice. “What are your intentions toward her?” demanded Gilbert earnestly. “Do ye intend to marry her, or are ye but triflin’ idly wi’ her affections?” Robert turned on him quickly. “Triflin’?” he repeated indignantly. “Nay, Gilbert, ye wrong me deeply.” “Forgive me, but ye ken Mary is not like other lassies to think lightly o’,” said Gilbert, his eye searching his brother’s face keenly. “Heaven forbid,” ejaculated Robert in a low, tense voice. “I canna’ understand your conduct o’ late,” continued Gilbert earnestly. “I fear your stay in Mauchline is responsible for the great change in ye, for ye are not the same lad ye were when ye left hame. I fear ye have sadly departed from those strict rules of virtue and moderation ye were taught by your parents, Robert.” “What mean ye, Gilbert?” inquired Robert, startled. “Ah, Rob,” responded Gilbert, shaking his head sadly, “I ken mair than ye think; reports travel e’en in the country.” The thought that his wild escapades were known to his narrow-minded though upright brother, and perhaps to others, filled Robert with sudden shame. “Weel, Gilbert,” he replied, trying to speak lightly, “Ye ken that I have been fallin’ in love and out again wi’ a’ the lassies ever since I was fifteen, but nae thought of evil ever entered my mind, ye ken that weel.”