"I'm no that sure," he replied unsteadily, and then his outstretched hands found hers, warm almost compelling in their fierce yet tender clasp. "Marrion, Marrion, my dear," he said hoarsely, "ye're bringing wae into yure life! Oh, dinna draw away frae me, I'm not come to tell ye I love you; _that's_ sure! You know that, Marrion, if you know anything. But listen! You cou'dna marry me. That's sure, too; d'ye think I can't feel that, too, Marrion? Right through to the very cauld core o' my heart, an' it's cauld, Marrion--it's deathly cauld!" He paused, and the girl in his passionate hold shivered. "It makes me cauld, too, Andry," she half-sobbed, "deathly cauld. You're meybe worth more than he is, but--but I canna help myself." Andrew's voice grew firmer. "An' I canna help it either, my dear. But if ye canna marry me, why sou'd you not marry him?" She shook her head. "I willna tie him down," she interrupted hoarsely. "I willna do him harm!" "It's no harm!" he urged. "See you, lassie; would ye rather hae a Lord Drummuir wi' a wife like yersel', or a Lord Drummuir like to the auld man at the Castle now? I'm no sayin', mind you, that he wad be just as his father, but--well, I hae lived wi' the major these eight years, and I ken fine he needs a guide--why, my dear, since ye cam here, he's away to his bed like a lad to sleep like a child; an' there's a play-actin' woman at the theaytre in Glasgi' that had laid hands on him and thocht she'd got him; but he's just escapit the snare like a bird from a fowler. Sae ye might do good, not harm." There was a pause. "Ye mean well, Andry," she said softly, "but--but he hasn't really asked me to--to marry him." Andrew turned aside wearily. "Has he no?" he replied. "Weel, that may be your fault, lassie; ye can keep a man at arm's length wi' a smilin' face, as I know tae my cost." A sudden realisation of the man's self-sacrificing devotion came to her. "An' ye've come to tell me this," she almost whispered, "to tell me to your cost! Oh, Andry, Andry, yere love is greater than mine!" A sort of half sob came from the darkness. "God bless ye for that, Marrion--God bless ye for that, my dear!" The scalding tears were in her eyes as she raised them from her hiding hands to look for him; but he had gone. The shadows were empty. The morning rose still and serene save for the puffing of the westerly wind that ruffled the blue sea with tiny white-crested waves. The Ayrshire coast stretching south lay green and yellow with ripe corn in little bays and promontories--far away like a faint cloud the cliffs of Ailsa Craig showed almost translucent. An ideal day indeed for a sail! Marrion, her mind still disturbed by her landlady's half-threatening remonstrances and by Andrew's pathetic appeal to the same conventional outlook, turned with relief to the prospect of her afternoon's holiday; probably the last one she would have, since she had made up her mind to leave for work next day.