“No, no, no, father,” she exclaimed frantically, falling on her knees beside him; “I cannot give him up now, I cannot.” After all the weary weeks of anxious fears and doubts she knew at last that she had found her heart, and now asked no greater happiness than to be allowed to remain with her husband to share his humble life, to be the mother of his family. All the old ambitious thoughts were gone forever. She wondered that they ever existed. “Ye shameless bairn, ye must an’ shall!” he replied fiercely. “This is the end o’ it all,” and he vindictively tore into little bits the paper Jean had given into his hands. “We’ll hear nae mair of that, my lass, an’ I swear ye shall never see Robert Burns again, make up your mind to that.” With a cry of despair Jean sank half fainting into a chair. As he witnessed Squire Armour’s fiendish act Robert’s heart gave a great bound that sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. The marriage lines were destroyed; then he was free, free! Oh, the music in that word! Free to do as he wished. A sob of anguish caused him to look around at the kneeling figure of the unfortunate girl. Quickly the eager light died out of his face as he noted her suffering. Going to the kneeling girl he raised her gently to her feet, and holding her by the hand faced the inhuman father. “Squire Armour, ye would condemn your ain flesh an’ blood to shame an’ disgrace because o’ your hatred for me,” he said quietly, “but it shall not be. I defy ye. Come, Jean, we will go to the Kirk at once and Daddy Auld will marry us.” They turned to go, but the old man stepped between them and the door, his arms upraised, his eyes wild and glaring. “I’d sooner see her in her grave than bear the accursed name of Robert Burns,” he cried with solemn intensity. “Great though her imprudence has been, she can still look to a higher, an’ better connection than a marriage with ye.” Turning to Jean he continued sternly, “Speak, lass, say that ye’ll obey me, or the bitter curse o’ your parents will haunt an’ follow ye all the rest o’ your days.” “Think of the disgrace, father,” wailed the unhappy girl, clinging to his arm beseechingly. “We’ll forget and forgive it all if ye’ll come back,” he replied, the great love for his child revealing itself in his eager tones. “Ye’re nae longer that man’s wife. Come an’ none will ever know o’ your dishonor.” “My God, mon!” exclaimed Robert in horrified accents, “where is your father’s pride, your ain honor, your manhood!” But Squire Armour heeded him not. “Come, my daughter, come,” he said tenderly, leading the weak, wavering girl to the door. “Ye canna expect to keep this a secret from the world, Squire Armour,” cried Robert indignantly. “Matters have gone too far for that; soon your daughter’s name will be blasted irretrievably, while mine will be coupled with that of blackguard. It must not be. Ye must let Jean go to the Kirk wi’ me this very night or I shall inform the Elders in the Kirk.”