It was no little trial to him to assume them in the changed aspect of his circumstances; for alas! he wore them in right of service only, not of birth, and the tartan of his lord’s family was all he could claim. He had not heard Lady Florimel enter. She went softly up behind him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started to his feet. “A penny for your thoughts,” she said, retreating a step or two. “I wad gie twa to be rid o’ them,” he returned, shaking his bushy head as if to scare the invisible ravens hovering about it. “How fine you are!” Florimel went on, regarding him with an approbation too open to be altogether gratifying. “--The dress suits you thoroughly. I didn’t know you at first. I thought it must be some friend of papa’s. Now I remember he said once you must wear the proper dress for a henchman. How do you like it?” “It’s a’ ane to me,” said Malcolm. “I dinna care what I weir.-- Gien only I had a richt till ’t!” he added with a sigh. “It is too bad of you, Malcolm!” rejoined Florimel in a tone of rebuke. “The moment fortune offers you favour, you fall out with her--won’t give her a single smile. You don’t deserve your good luck.” Malcolm was silent. “There’s something on your mind,” Florimel went on, partly from willingness to serve Mrs Stewart, partly enticed by the romance of being Malcolm’s comforter, or perhaps confessor. “Ay is there, my leddy.” “What is it? Tell me. You can trust me!” “I could trust ye, but I canna tell ye. I daurna--I maunna.” “I see you will not trust me,” said Florimel, with a half pretended, half real offence. “I wad lay doon my life--what there is o’ ’t--for ye, my leddy; but the verra natur’ o’ my trouble winna be tauld. I maun beir ’t my lane.” It flashed across Lady Florimel’s brain, that the cause of his misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of herself. Now, Malcolm, standing before her in his present dress, and interpreted by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, was a very different person indeed from the former Malcolm in the guise of fisherman or sailor, and she felt as well as saw the difference: if she was the cause of his misery, why should she not comfort him a little? why should she not be kind to him? Of course anything more was out of the question; but a little confession and consolation would hurt neither of them. Besides, Mrs Stewart had begged her influence, and this would open a new channel for its exercise. Indeed, if he was unhappy through her, she ought to do what she might for him. A gentle word or two would cost her nothing, and might help to heal a broken heart! She was hardly aware, however, how little she wanted it healed--all at once.