“And by the by, Mossgray,” said Walter abruptly, “you might mention that--about my partner being this man’s agent--to Miss Murray; not that she will care of course--but just--one does not like to be unjustly blamed.” “Lucy does not know,” said I, “but I will tell her, Walter, since you wish it. Poor Lucy!--I mean,” I added, as I saw his keen eye shoot from me to Charlie, who walked before us, with an intelligent glance, “I mean it will be so great a trial to her to leave Murrayshaugh.” Johnstone did not speak. I felt that this was not known to me only, and I remembered bitterly then, that on _her_ the scorn would lie, the stigma of being slighted and deserted; and that scarcely either man or woman would think the worse of him--him, the faithless coward who had thus failed in need. I scarcely recollect how Charlie and I managed our brief intercourse after that, but it was a very great relief to me when he departed next day. For the first time since we knew each other, Charlie went into Fendie to take his departure alone, with no one to bid him farewell. I believe he felt in some degree the emphasis of the broken custom. I almost believe he would have been glad then to undo what he had done--but the die was cast--it was too late. A few days after, I went to Murrayshaugh, anxious, if I could manage it indirectly, to see Lucy, and yet afraid to meet her. It was a chill day for summer, with a clouded sky and a loud boisterous breeze tossing the long willow boughs into a sort of fantastic unearthly mirth, which moved me, much as the unseemly merry-making of a mourner might have done. Lucy was sitting in a favourite corner of hers, at the end of the terrace, reading--at least she had a book in her hand. As I approached the stile, and little bridge, over the Murrayshaugh burn, under cover of the eldritch willow branches, she perceived me, and observing that I hesitated to enter, beckoned me to her. I obeyed at once. I do not think she was paler that day than she had always been, but there was a grave composure about her face which made her seem so. Whatever struggle there had been it was over--and I remember a consciousness of something clear and chill about her, such as one feels in the air after a storm--an atmosphere in which everything stands out in bold relief, disclosing all its points and angles against the distinct far-distant sky. Yet Lucy was no less benign--no less gentle than she had always been. “I wanted to see you, Adam,” she said. “I will write to Hew to-day--have you anything to say to him?” “No,” said I, stammering and hesitating, for I felt painfully the great event, the era in our lives which had become known to me since I saw her last. “No, Lucy--except what Hew does not need to be told, I hope--that I constantly think of him as of my most dear friend, and that scarcely anything in the world would delight me so much as to see him again.”