The young woman drew back. She drew away her hand. She stood evidently on the defensive. “I didna come here,” she said, “to tell wha or what I am. Naebody here has anything to do with me. If you’re Miss Heriot, I beg your pardon; but you’re taking too much upon you with a stranger lass, that wants naething from you.” The listener rose to his feet; he was shocked and annoyed by what he thought the impertinence of the wayfarer, whose confidence Marjory had condescended to ask. But Marjory herself was not offended. She said hurriedly, “Do not be afraid of me. I ask with no unkind meaning. I would not hurt you for the world. What I want is that you should trust me, and tell me your story. I will do anything in the world for you, if you are Isabell.” There was another pause, as of consideration, and then the stranger replied, “I canna say, mem, what you may mean. It’s no for me to pry into your secrets, if you have secrets. There’s many Isabells in the world, and that might have been my name, and me know nothing about you or yours; but my name’s no Isabell, if that is any satisfaction. You said you would show me a short gait to Comlie--” “I will,” said Marjory, tremulously. They were walking slowly past Fanshawe, taking no notice of him, and with feelings that were not altogether delightful, he perceived that she had forgotten his very existence. “But you asked about my brother,” she added, with soft tones of pleading, “and he is dead. Poor Tom! I want to know everybody he knew. Was it in--the Highlands? Will you tell me where you knew him? It is not for any harm--” “Mem, I’m sorry to have put fancies in your head by my foolish question,” said the resolute young woman. “What could the like of me ken of the like of him? I’ve seen him maybe three or four times; he was kind to some poor folk in our parish; and hearing the name on a journey, I knockit at the garden-door to ask what had come of him. I didna ken,” she added, with a quiver of emotion, which she evidently did all she could to restrain, “that he was dead. I was struck to hear it, and I’m sorry for you and all the family, with such a sore trial. If you are the only leddy, mem, I’m maist sorry for you.” “Thank you,” said Marjory. “I have lost my father and both my brothers. I have nothing more left me in the world but one dear little sister. There is not a more sorrowful woman in all Scotland.” “Ah! but there is, though!” burst from the girl; and then she made a sudden pause, as if of obstinacy, and looked Marjory in the face defying her. Once more Marjory took her hand. She wept as she spoke, pleading, crying, both at once, till Fanshawe, who was so close by, felt his heart melt within him, and could have cried too. “Oh!” she said, “tell me who that is? I am sure you know something, though you will not tell. What can I say to show you that I am not an enemy. Do you mean Isabell?” There was another painful pause, and once more the girl deliberated with herself.