"Alas!" she thought, "is it possible that I am the same miserable broken woman who cared not even for the light of day a few weeks ago? And now a change of scene, meeting with an old friend, has sent courage through my veins, and made life seem sweet to me again." But there was no use lamenting over feelings which had gone, and she was too honest with herself to blind herself to the fact of being different. Her grief for her child was there sharp and painful, for a mother cannot forget. But the crushing sense of having done something unworthy had been lifted from her. The tone of gentle respect and sympathy shown her by Sir Albert had swept false theories upon one side. She still said to herself, "I have sinned!" but she no longer said, "Heaven can forgive, but man never can!" and the sharpest sting was gone. Jean was in a state of wild excitement as they drew near the old haunts. Her head was turning in rapid succession from side to side as she recognised the various landmarks. "Eh!" she exclaimed aloud, greatly to the amusement of the other passengers, "there is the old kirk and the hill behind it, just as I left them." "You did not expect them to run away, did you?" said an elderly man, watching her keenly. "I do not know what I expected," she answered, in an abstracted manner, "but they are there--and that is a very great deal to me." Margaret had no associations, but she also looked eagerly at a place of which she had heard so much. The great brown hills were sleeping in the sunshine, their beautiful outlines sharp and clear against a pale sky, on which floated a few golden clouds. Between some fir-trees she at length saw the sea. But it seemed to her that never had she appreciated it so fully before. The purple shadows sweeping over it made the bright radiance of the sun's last rays exquisitely beautiful, and the crest of each restless wave seemed a moving mass of gold. As the train drew up, her eyes were still dazzled by the brilliancy of the picture. Mrs. Dorriman, inclined to be tearful, and quite resolved not to give way, made singular faces, as she held that forlorn figure to her kindly heart. "Do not cry, my dear," she said, in a low voice, as she watched Margaret's calm face, expecting every moment to see her break down, and quite astonished at her calmness and self-command. Margaret was not inclined to cry. The source of her tears lay far too deep. She had wept for her child for months, and still there came that painful spasm if something brought it suddenly before her; but Mrs. Dorriman had no association in connection with it. She reminded her of her girlhood, of Lornbay, of all that happened there, and any emotion she felt was softened to her now by the soothing influence of Sir Albert Gerald's kindness and sympathy. "It is like coming home," she said to Mrs. Dorriman. "My poor child!"