“Wha is Isabell?” she said, at last, with a certain determination. “I ken many an Isabell that’s in no trouble, and some that are. How am I to ken wha you mean?” “And I cannot tell you,” said Marjory, with despair. “That is all I know of her. She--knew--my brother; and so do you. She would be sorry for him, I am sure; and so are you.” “I told you, mem,” said the other, resolutely, “my name’s no Isabell. I’m no responsible for a’ the folk that knew Mr. Heriot. I canna take upon me to answer for them. And if I said there was in Scotland a mair sorrowful woman than you could be, oh, can the like of you ever be as sorrowful as a widow woman, a poor woman, a woman with hungry bairns, and no a morsel to give them? I’ve kent such: it goes against me to hear a young lady with plenty of siller and plenty of friends make such a moan; though I’m sorry for you,” she added, after a pause, “real sorry for you too. And now will you let me see the short gait, or will I turn back and go the gait I came? for it’s getting dark, and I dinna wish to be on a strange road at night by mysel, my lane.” “Then you will not tell me anything?” said Marjory. “I hae naething to tell you, mem,” said the girl. This strange visitor entered and disappeared through the Pitcomlie garden, while Verna was sitting at her open window, plotting and preparing all the things she would do, if--. Verna knew nothing of her, and had she known, would have been full of maidenly indignation at the idea that Marjory could notice “such creatures.” Marjory, however, was of a very different mind. She led the girl through the flower-garden and through the house, anxiously guiding her to the light of the lamp in the hall, where she could see her face. She was but a comely country girl, nothing more, with fair hair twisted into a net, and a little brown hat with a plain ribbon. She might have been a respectable country servant, or a cotter’s daughter. There was nothing in any way remarkable about her. She had blue eyes, very steady and serious in their expression, and a firm mouth, which at present was closed fast, as if in fear of self-betrayal. She dropped a rustic curtsey as Marjory opened to her the great hall-door, and directed her how to go. “You’re very kind, mem, and I beg your pardon if I wasna civil,” she said, with penitence. Marjory stood looking after her as she disappeared into the night. Perhaps after all it was but a whim of her own, a fancy that had nothing in it. She turned away from the door with a sigh, and then the gust of chilly air which caught her from the garden, reminded her that she had left Fanshawe there, and that he must have heard all. She went slowly back to seek him, and make her apology, her mind, like the night, dark and wistful, full of chill airs and many clouds. CHAPTER XIX.