“He shall know all that you did for his mother--all that you would have done for him,” said Marjory. “He will grow up to reward you, at least, with his love.” “Reward me!” said Agnes, with a hot flush on her cheeks. “I said, with his love,” said Marjory, gently, “which is what no one would scorn, not the Queen.” “No, no the Queen. She’s a good leddy,” said Agnes; “but ye can take many a thing from them below you that you canna take from them above you. Love’s no love unless you’re a kind of equals. I would rather he kent nothing about us. We’re no of his condition, and never can be. Eh, my poor Bell! my poor Bell! that was so pleased he should be a gentleman’s son, without thinking that it parted him from all belonging to her,” cried Agnes, the tears rushing down her face in a sudden tempest. Then she dried her eyes hurriedly. “Miss Heriot, I ken he’s in good hands. We’ll never trouble you, and you’ll no breed him up to despise us. I must away now; there’s aye plenty to do, God be praised.” “But, Agnes, I shall see you again? You will not go away without coming to see the child and me?” “It would serve no purpose,” she said. “I’ll see you where I once saw you before, in the churchyard.” “Oh, little did I think how I was to go there next! I grudge her to you, I grudge her to you! though I do not deny it’s an honour, a’ the honour that can be shown now--” “All that we have ever had it in our power to show,” said Marjory. “I’m saying nothing against that,” said Agnes, with her unquenchable look of rivalry, of unsuccessful rivalry, compelled to yield to superior power. She bent over the child, who slept peacefully on the sofa, for a moment, and then she turned and left the room with scant ceremony. Her heart was too sore for politeness, and politeness is not the cardinal virtue of her kind. Thus she passed away out of Marjory’s life. The strange interlude of her connection with the Heriots must have looked like a dream to her in after-days. She never interfered, never claimed to see the child, never asserted any right to him. Partly with that stoicism which belongs to her class and nation, and partly for very love’s sake, she gave him up, making the sacrifice absolute and perfect, as only a powerful nature can do. How could she? many a feeble critic said afterwards. The peasant-girl could, because of love, and because she was tenderer and stronger than most; the effort rent her heart, but she did it, feeling the fitness of the sacrifice.