“I have na forgotten him, mither,” replied Gilbert quietly. “Nor am I likely to, for my ain lot in life is nae better.” And pulling his cap down over his eyes, he went back to the window and gazed moodily out over the bare, rocky, profitless farm which must be made to yield them a living. There was silence for a time, broken only by the regular monotonous ticking of the old clock. After a time Mrs. Burns quietly left the room. “Oh, laddie,” whispered Souter as the door closed behind her, coming up beside Gilbert, “did ye hear the news that Tam O’Shanter brought frae Mauchline?” “Do you mean about Robert an’ some lassie there?” inquired Gilbert indifferently, after a brief pause. “Aye!” returned Souter impressively, “but she’s nae common lass, Gilbert. She’s Squire Armour’s daughter Jean, called the Belle of Mauchline.” “I ken it’s no serious,” replied Gilbert sarcastically, “for ye ken Robert’s heart is like a tinder box, that flares up at the first whisper of passion,” and he turned away from the window and started for the door. “I canna’ understand,” reflected Souter, “how the lad could forget his sweetheart, Highland Mary, long enough to take up wi any ither lassie. They were mighty fond o’ each ither before he went awa’ a year ago. I can swear to that,” and he smiled reminiscently. A look of despair swept over Gilbert’s face at the idle words of the garrulous old man. He leaned heavily against the door, for there was a dull, aching pain at his heart of which he was physically conscious. For a few moments he stood there with white drawn face, trying hard to realize the bitter truth, that at last the day had come, as he had feared it must come, when he must step aside for the prodigal brother who would now claim his sweetheart. And she would go to him so gladly, he knew, without a single thought of his loneliness or his sorrow. But she was not to blame. It was only right that she should now be with her sweetheart, that he must say farewell to those blissful walks along the banks of the Doon which for almost a year he had enjoyed with Mary by his side. His stern, tense lips relaxed, and a faint smile softened his rugged features. How happy he had been in his fool’s paradise. But he loved her so dearly that he had been content just to be with her, to listen to the sweetness of her voice as she prattled innocently and lovingly of her absent sweetheart. A snore from Souter, who had fallen asleep in his chair, roused him from the fond reverie into which he had fallen, and brought him back to earth with a start. With a bitter smile he told himself he had no right to complain. If he had allowed himself to fall in love with his brother’s betrothed, he alone was to blame, and he must suffer the consequence. Suddenly a wild thought entered his brain. Suppose—and his heart almost stopped beating at the thought—suppose Robert had grown to love someone else, while away, even better than he