“That is what I am,” he said, with a slight glance down upon her, and then turning his head away. “I am not of any use either to myself or to other people.” “How can you say so, Mr. Fanshawe? To us you have been everything that the kindest friend could be.” “For why? Because I liked it; because I have been so mixed up--pardon the homely word--with you and yours; not for any good reason; which I suppose, as I have been told often, is the only rule of value. Indeed, the great thing is that you have allowed me to stay, and made me, to my own surprise, good for something; not much even now. If I tried ever so often, in an ordinary way I should not know what to do.” Marjory made no answer. He had seated her on a bench under the lime-trees. He had been standing opposite, but now he sat down by her. He had discovered before that she was not to be tempted into these personal discussions. She was twisting and untwisting her fingers vaguely, with a nervous habit, not thinking what she did. “Life is so easy for some people,” she said, at last, “quite clearly marked out, with nothing strange or complicated in it. It has always been so with us. I don’t think it will be so in the future. I begin to feel as if the well-known, well-worn path had stopped, and I do not know what odd track may follow. I never understood the feeling before. Perhaps you, who have had more experience--you may understand it, I don’t.” “That is what I mean,” he said, “only I never had any well-worn path to lose. Mine is like this little byway close to us. A big old stone gate, with shields and all the rest, and nothing opening from it, except that irregular line on the turf. One keeps to it because there is nothing else to keep to. This will never be your case, but it is mine. I am good for nothing. Nobody comes in by me, or goes out by me--” “Not like the path then,” said Marjory, with a faint smile, “for there is some one knocking. Is it at the old gate or the garden door?” It was twilight, and their bench, though completely hidden, was close to both entrances. In the little pause which followed, the knocking went on softly, and after a while the gardener was heard trudging along the gravel path with his heavy steps. “Wha’s there?” he said. “It’s me, Sir,” answered another voice; and then after a pause--“a stranger, if ye please, that wanted to ask a question. I’ll no keep you long. It’s a Mr. Heriot, is’t no, that lives here?” “Ay, my woman,” said the voice of the old gardener. “You may say that. There’s been a Mr. Heriot here for as long as kirks have been standing or kailyards planted. But there’s nae Mr. Heriot the now, for he died on Tuesday, and he’s to be buried the morn.” “Eh, poor man!” said the other, in a startled tone, and she added, in a lower voice, “I never saw him, but I’m real sorry. It would be him that had sons--two sons?”