“You were always her support and comfort,” said Marjory, taking her hand, and with tears in her eyes. “Was anything else possible? I kent our Bell, ay, better than my mother. She was aye delicate. She never could stand what I could stand. She would aye read her book when she had a moment--no like me that am just a country lass--and oh, so bonnie! When gentlemen came by, they would make errands for a drink of water, or to warm their feet, or to light a cigar, or the like of that, just for the sake of a good look at her. Mr. Heriot was a pleasant gentleman. He had aye a good excuse. He would have this question and that to ask my mother, as if it was her he was wanting. The Lord forgive him,” cried Agnes, “if he meant to deceive! for he is dead and gone, and canna be punished--and I wouldna wish him to be damned for ever and ever, though he would weel deserve it, richly deserve it--if he wanted to deceive!” Notwithstanding all her interest and all her sympathy, this was hard for Marjory’s proud spirit. She moved uneasily in her chair, she grew hot and flushed, her brow contracted, her foot beat upon the carpet. “He did not mean to deceive,” she cried, impatiently. “I know he did not. He thought he had told me. Such a thing was not possible--” “I hope so,” said Agnes, composing herself. “But he kept Bell without a written word, not so much as a ‘wife’ in his letters, nor signing himself her husband--no a single word. They had good reason to think she was deceived. And the little bairn was no sooner born--ye havena seen him, Miss Heriot; he’s like your bonnie little sister with the gold hair--than a friend saw in the papers that Mr. Heriot was dead in England. Oh, that terrible time! Sickness is ill, and grief’s warse, and shame the warst of a’; but a’ three at once upon one bit delicate head, a’ three! and neither consolation nor support, neither pity nor fellow-feeling! Ye may think I’m whiles no very civil nor respectful to them that’s above me. I canna help it; my heart’s bitter at you a’--bitter! bitter!--at them that lead the poor and simple astray, and leave them to bear the wyte--them that go away and enjoy themselves, and live--or even that go and die--and leave other folk behind to pay the price. It’s them I hate.” “But the people who could have proved all this?” said Fanshawe. “Surely you speak too strongly. If there are people who can prove it, why blame Mr. Heriot? He was snatched away from this life; he had not time for anything. But if it rests on the testimony of witnesses--”