He said this standing in the place which Marjory had given up to him, taking in everything around, the homely scene, the group which filled the room, rather than the individual whom he was addressing. When, however, he turned to her at the conclusion of his little speech, Mr. Charles gave a perceptible start. What Isabell might have been, in rude health like her sister, it would have been difficult to say, or whether the refinement and melancholy beauty of her face was purchased chiefly by grief and suffering; but certainly there was nothing in this pale and fragile creature, which answered to Mr. Charles’s idea of a country lass. He stammered a little in his confusion. He said, stumbling over his words, “I--beg your pardon; I am afraid you are--not so well--as I thought--” “I will never be well in this world,” said Isabell. “I’m going fast, fast to a better, where a’body will understand. It was Miss Heriot put that first into my head--where there will be nobody that will not understand. I’m weak, weak, no able to tell it all over again; and oh, Sir, what for should I take all that pain, no to be believed? What matter is it whether God clear my good name or no? He will do it some time--and right my little bairn. I’m tired, tired--oh, mother, I’m tired, my heart’s beating; and my head’s throbbing. Dinna ask me any questions. I want to rest--” “Oh, Bell!” cried the mother, coming forward. “Oh, my Bell! tell the gentleman. Now is the time to say the truth, whatever it may be. And now I’ll believe you, my bairn! I’ve been hard, and shut my heart. Now--now--if you’ll say it again, I will believe you, Bell!” The girl closed her eyes, and shook her head gently. “How often have I told you, and you wouldna believe me, mother? Why now, when my strength is failing, and my heart sinking?” “Isabell!” cried Agnes, “speak to them--oh, for God’s sake--look at me upon my knees to you,” and she rushed forward into the midst of the room, and threw herself upon her knees, with tears bursting from her blue eyes and her hands raised in passionate supplication, “for the man’s sake that’s dead, that never loved you half so well as I’ve done--for the bairn’s sake that I’ll be a mother to--Isabell! for the last time.” Wearily Isabell opened her eyes. “Am I dying then?” she said, with a feeble smile. “Eh, that would be good news! You would not put it to me so solemn if I was not dying. I’m wearied, sore wearied; but if it’s the last time I must not think of mysel. My breath’s going, mother, and my heart’s fluttering; come and hold me by the hand, and Miss Heriot--where is Miss Heriot? Must I say it all over--every word? Sir, stand you there that I may see you. I was a foolish creature, and ignorant--knowing nothing. I didna pay attention when I should--I was fond of foolish things and dreaming.” “Bell, you were the best of my bairns; you never gave me an hour’s trouble--till _that_ time--”