“Nothing!” said Marjory. “She said you had something on your conscience. My poor girl, I believe all you said to me; but if you could relieve your mother by telling her anything you have not told her?” “Oh! no, no!” cried the girl; “there is nothing I have not told her. It is all true--as true as the Holy Gospel. I would bear shame if I deserved it. I would na’ shrink from my just recompense. I’m bearing it now, and falsely, and it’s killing me; but the truth, and that alone, I will say.” Marjory looked up at her with a strong and yearning pity, which she herself scarcely understood. It seemed to her that she would like to take the matter in hand, and clear the truthfulness of this delicate ailing creature, who looked so shadowy and worn, and pale. Whatever her fault might be, it appeared hard to pursue her to the edge of the grave with reproaches, as her mother seemed doing. She was young enough to be forgiven, Marjory thought, almost whatever she had done; young enough to be pardoned for maintaining some fiction of self-defence, whatever it might be. So young--and yet so near, it seemed, to those gates of death which shut upon everything, making an end of all pretences. “Poor child!” Marjory said, unconsciously, as she looked at her. The sight of such a creature dropping slowly, visibly into the grave at her age, was enough to move a heart of stone, without any addition to the sadness of the sight. “I am twenty,” said the girl; “you think me younger than I am; and I’ve lived a long life, though I am not auld. I have had sad changes, hope and fear, and then a bit blink that was bright, bright, and then darkness, darkness, wherever the eye could see. It is hard enough to bear that when your own folk stand by you; but when they are turned against ye--and dinna believe ye--” “Does no one stand by you?” asked Marjory. “My sister,” said the girl. “She’s good, good, better than anyone I ever knew. She has given up her place to be near me. She puts her trust in me--which is a great strength when you have to face doubt. Oh, if I could be sure I would live till it’s all cleared up! But it would be hard, hard, to die before--though I can do that too--if the Lord will--But oh, seeing it’s the triumph o’ truth and right I’m wanting--seeing it’s no for mysel’, for I must die sooner or later--do you no think He’s sure to grant it before I die?” “I do not know what it is,” said Marjory; and then feeling as if what she said was unkind and cold, she added quickly, “I hope you will live long, and see better days. You are so young--” The girl shook her head. She held up her thin hand, interrupting the words. “I have no wish for length of days,” she said. “Many a time I’ve wondered how it was that long life was made so much of in the very Bible itsel’. But that was in the old days, before our Lord’s time, when folks knew little about it, or where they were going to. I mind, aye, a verse of a poem that runs in my head,