“Heaven bless ye, Mary,” he whispered brokenly. “The thought of your love will gie me courage to bear my exile bravely.” “Exile!” she repeated shuddering. “Oh, what a drear word, to think ye must be exiled in your noble youth, that ye maun leave your hame, your country, to live alone in some foreign clime.” The tears streamed down her pallid cheeks. “We will a’ miss ye sair, lad,” she continued bravely, “and we will pray for ye, an’—an’—oh, ’twill be sae hard to say good-by, perhaps forever.” She threw her arms about his neck and clung to him passionately. He held the weeping child in his strong, loving embrace, his face close to hers. “Oh, why was I born, only to bring sorrow, pain an’ disgrace to those I hold dear?” he cried in an agony of grief and remorse. “Bitterly am I atonin’ for my act o’ imprudence; an exile, a failure,” he gave a mirthless little laugh; “aye, a failure, for e’en the hopes of success held out to me have a’ vanished in disappointment. Oblivion has enveloped me in its darkening pall, for whichever way I turn naught but darkest gloom, with not e’en a ray of light, meets my wretched gaze.” A flash of lightning pierced the darkness, followed shortly by a heavy, prolonged roll of thunder. She nestled closer to his side. “Be not discouraged, laddie,” she said; “’tis always darkest before dawn, an’ who kens what may yet happen?” “Ah, nae, nae,” he interrupted with a despairing shake of his head, “e’en the elements conspire against me, for I maun face this coming storm on foot to reach Greenock. ’Tis all a part of my just punishment.” The wind had risen and with it a driving mist which soon enveloped them in its damp embrace. But they heeded it not. “Bide a wee, dinna go to-night,” she pleaded, while the wind tossed her tangled curls seductively around his neck and in his sorrowing face. “Listen to the wind. Oh,’tis a bad night to start on a journey,” and she clung to him tighter, her skirts flapping about his limbs like some live thing, thrilling him by their touch. “Before ye came out, lassie,” he replied quietly, stilling the tumult in his heart, “I wrote some verses in this book as a parting song; how appropriate they are for this occasion ye will see. Listen,” and holding the book up to the light he began to read: “The gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr; ’Tis not the surging billows’ roar, ’Tis not that fatal deadly shore, Tho’ death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear; But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierced with many a wound; These bleed afresh, these ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.”