“That’s the maist mysterious part of a’,” said the gardener, glad of a gossip. “He had two sons--bonnie lads, and strong lads, and like life. One of them went out to India, and married a wife; but the eldest wasna of that kind. They are both dead within three weeks, the one after the other, the father and the two sons.” A cry, subdued, but strangely piercing and full of mingled awe and terror, rang into the air. Then the gardener spoke again. “Does anything ail ye, lass? What’s the matter? They’re no a drap’s blood to you that you should be that vexed. What are ye saying? Ay, there was a Tammas, the auldest son. They are a’ Tammasses in this house--Tammasses and Charlies; but they’re baith dead and gone! Are you greeting, lass? And what do you ken about the family? Losh me! She’s greeting like to break her heart.” “I kent--one of the--young gentlemen,” answered the stranger, with broken sobs. “One o’ the young gentlemen? Maister Tom was wild, I aye said it. It would be Maister Tom. It’s no to your credit, my dear, no to your credit. A poor lass should have nothing to say to a young gentleman. Maybe it was away in England? but you’re no English. It might be in the Hielands. He was aye ranting about here and there, taking no thought. Now, my bonnie lass, was it in the Hielands? You needna distrust me.” “It’s no matter to you nor to naebody,” said the other voice. “Miss Heriot, where are you going?” Fanshawe said, in dismay. Marjory had risen from his side in a noiseless ghostly way, and had crossed the path under the limes to a door in the wall, which led into the other garden. She disappeared in the darkness, while he sat wondering, and immediately after he heard her speak. “You are asking after the family. You are sorry for us in our trouble. You may go, Sandy. I want to speak to her myself. Will you tell me if--you want anything?” “Nothing,” said the other voice, with sudden and evident self-restraint. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, mem. I meant nothing but to ask a question on my road as I passed.” “But you knew my poor brother?” “I’ve seen a Maister Heriot, that was said to come frae Fife.” “Will you come in?” said Marjory. “I thank ye, mem, but I’ve nae time to waste. My errand’s dune. I’ve a long road before me.” “If you will come with me I will let you out another way, which is shorter,” said Marjory, in a conciliatory tone. There was a momentary pause, and after some hesitating answer, Fanshawe heard the door of the other garden shut, and saw two figures come back instead of one. The new-comer was shorter than Marjory. Her dress was tucked up as if for walking; but there was not light enough to distinguish her face. I think Marjory, in the new interest which possessed her, had forgotten Fanshawe. To his infinite surprise, he saw her grasp the hand of the country lass as she closed the little door in the wall, and heard her ask eagerly, in a half-whispering voice, “Are you Isabell?”