He was eighteen, and to become all at once a man, an officer, an independent individuality, was enough to turn the head of any youth. Ronald Drummond was different. He was going from a much more genial home: he had already tasted the sweets of independence, having served in the last campaign in the Peninsula and been wounded, which was a thing that raised him still higher in the scale of life than the three years’ advantage in respect of age which he had over his young comrade. He was neither so cheerful nor so much excited as Robbie. He came and stood over Kirsteen as she drew closer and closer to the window to end her work before the light had gone. “You are working it with your hair!” he said, suddenly, perceiving the nature of the long curling thread with which she threaded her needle. “Yes,” she said, demurely, holding up her work to the light. “What did you think it was?” “I thought it was gold thread,” he said. And then he took up one of the handkerchiefs already completed from the table. “R. D.,” he said. “That’s my name too.” “So it is,” said Kirsteen, as if she had now discovered the fact for the first time. “Nobody will do anything like that for me,” he added, pathetically. “Oh, Ronald! if not the hairs of their heads but the heads themselves would do ye good ye should have them--and that ye know.” “It is very true,” said Ronald, “and thank you, Kirsteen, for reminding me how good they are; but,” he added, after a moment, in a low voice, “they are not _you_.” She gave vent to a very feeble laugh which was full of emotion. “No, they could not be that,” she said. “And R. D. is my name too,” said the young man. “Kirsteen!” She looked up at him for a moment in the light that was fading slowly out of the skies. He had taken one of the handkerchiefs from the pile, and touching her sleeve with one hand to call her attention, put the little glistening letters to his lips and then placed the handkerchief carefully in the breast pocket of his coat. Standing as he did, shutting out, as she complained, all the light from Mrs. Douglas, this little action was quite unseen, except by the one person who was intended to see it. Kirsteen could make no reply nor objection, for her heart was too full for speech. Her trembling hand, arrested in its work, dropped into his for a moment. He whispered something else, she scarcely knew what--and then Marg’ret marched into the room with the two candles which were all the lights ever used in Drumcarro parlour, and all was over and done. CHAPTER II.