Fate, however, had other things in store for her, for just after the New Year Andrew Fraser appeared in her small drawing-room. He came in, tall, gaunt, hard-featured as ever, stood at the door and saluted, as he had done ever since Marrion in self-defence had told him that she and his master were fast married. "Back so soon!" she cried. "I thought the major was to be longer at the castle." "He is the colonel now," returned Andrew gloomily, "an' we are awa tae Portsmouth the day. But I cam', Marrion, tae tell ye that the domed fowk in the ha' at Drummuir were sayin' 'he was tae get marriet tae Lady Amabel.' An' that canna be.' "Lady Amabel," echoed Marrion, glad in a way of a surprise which enabled her to make a diversion, at any rate, for a time. "He didn't say anything. I thought it was to be a bachelor party." Andrew snorted a vexed denial. "Sma' count o' that! The auld peer had gotten Lady Penrigg, the railway man's wife, tae gi' him countenance wi' the gentry, and there was the Marchioness o' Broadway and the young leddy--a nice, straight-speakin' girlie. An' it was a' decent and God-fearin' with curlin' and skatin' and sleighin' an' songs an' forfeits in the evenin'. Dewar, my lord's valet, tell't me he had never heard the Baron swear sae awfie as he did when he got tae his own room o' nichts. It jest turned him cauld. But it was lying on the poor falla's stummick a' day. Hoo'ever I didna come for that." "And the major--I mean the colonel," interrupted Marrion hastily, "did he enjoy himself?" It was an unwise remark, for it hastened what she wished to avoid. "Ower much, mayhap," put in Andrew, taking a step nearer her, his little grey eyes looking at her with pathetic earnestness. "Marrion, my dear," he went on, "I've helt ma tongue a' these years, relying on your word that ye had your lines safe. Not that they matter sae much, since I can swear to yer bein' man and wife--aye, and mayhap bring ithers tae swear it, too. But I'm no satisfied, an' that's God's truth. Ye ken fine that by a' the laws o' God and man ye're bound together, an' surely ye're no seekin' to get past the responsibility that ye took upon yersels?" There was something merciless in the stern solid figure before her; but Marrion had courage, and faced her task. "Sit down, Andrew, and let me explain," she began, but he stood to attention more rigidly, and with a forecast of failure in her mind she went through the whole set of arguments she had used with success on Marmaduke. But here she had different metal to weld. "Ye took it upon yersels," he reiterated. "It was the Lord's doin' that the poor wee bairnie didna live. It's ill tryin' tae get the better o' Providence." The hopelessness of influencing him made her at last try an appeal to his personal devotion to her; but his reply sent her crimson to her very heart-strings. "That's neither here nor there, Marrion. If ye was twenty times free by yere ain makin', I wadna take yer love at a gift."