Then that next morning--cold and raw and damp, with a blustering northwest wind that seemed to bring an angry summons from the far seas. At the station his hand was trembling like the hand of a drunken man; his eyes wild and troubled: his face haggard. And as the moment arrived for the train to start, he became more and more excited. "Come and take your place, Macleod," the major said. "There is no use worrying about leaving. We have eaten our cake. The frolic is at an end. All we can do is to sing, 'Then fare you well, my Mary Blane,' and put up with whatever is ahead. If I could only have a drop of real, genuine Talisker to steady my nerves--" But here the major, who had been incidentally leaning out of the window, caught sight of a figure, and instantly he withdrew his head. Macleod disappeared. That great, gaunt room--with the hollow footfalls of strangers, and the cries outside. His face was quite white when he took her hand. "I am very late," she said, with a smile. He could not speak at all. He fixed his eyes on hers with a strange intensity, as if he would read her very soul; and what could any one find there but a great gentleness and sincerity, and the frank confidence of one who had nothing to conceal? "Gertrude," said he at last, "whatever happens to us two, you will never forget that I loved you?" "I think I may be sure of that," she said, looking down. They rang a bell outside. "Good-by, then." He tightly grasped the hand he held; once more he gazed into those clear and confiding eyes--with an almost piteously anxious look: then he kissed her and hurried away. But she was bold enough to follow. Her eyes were very moist. Her heart was beating fast. If Glenogie had there and then challenged her, and said, "_Come, then, sweetheart; will you fly with me? And the proud mother will meet you. And the gentle cousin will attend on you. And Castle Dare will welcome the young bride!_"--what would she have said? The moment was over. She only saw the train go gently away from the station; and she saw the piteous eyes fixed on hers; and while he was in sight she waved her handkerchief. When the train had disappeared she turned away with a sigh. "Poor fellow," she was thinking to herself, "he is very much in earnest--far more in earnest than even poor Howson. It would break my heart if I were to bring him any trouble." By the time she had got to the end of the platform, her thoughts had taken a more cheerful turn. "Dear me," she was saying to herself, "I quite forgot to ask him whether my Gaelic was good!" When she had got into the street outside, the day was brightening. "I wonder," she was asking herself, "whether Carry would come and look at that exhibition of water-colors; and what would the cab fare be?" CHAPTER XXVIII. A DISCLOSURE.