She waited for him to speak, and he noted, with much admiration, that when she sat expectant she did not fidget. This power of stillness he counted a great merit. Nothing annoyed him so much as being spoken to in turns, with an intense and unflattering attention towards an uninteresting piece of work, or what he considered uninteresting. "I wish," he said suddenly, "that you could think of some one else as much as you do of your brother!" Startled, she raised her eyes, and his look confused her. "I----I have no one else," she said, in a low voice. "Yes, you have, Mrs. Dorriman, if only you will try to think so. I believe--I am afraid the idea is new to you--but could you not try and like me a little? I cannot tell you how I have learned to love you! but you are so good and so unselfish. I think--I am quite sure--there is nobody like you!..." Margaret, sitting on the stone seat, heard voices coming towards her. She rose, and went to meet those two who, after the flush of youth and bloom was passed, had for the very first time found a real home in the heart of another. Mrs. Dorriman seemed to have renewed her youth; the flush in her face, and the serenity of her brow, made her look so much younger. She walked as in a dream. She had for so long now thought of Mr. Stevens as a most kind and most helpful friend; and she had always admired that independence and straight-forwardness that upheld the right without roughness. And this man loved her! How wonderful, she thought in her humility, how extraordinary, that he, with the whole world to choose from, should love _her_--wish her to be his wife. Margaret's congratulations were most heartfelt. She understood the charm to Mr. Stevens that lay in Mrs. Dorriman's sweetness and gentleness, and there was something frank and pleasant about him. The sight of these two, so utterly and quietly happy, did make her think a little of the emptiness of her own life; but she would not dwell upon this--she would try and throw her energies into some useful direction. In the meantime, she would do her utmost not to mar Mrs. Dorriman's happiness by any repinings about leaving Inchbrae. The place was very dear to her; she had grown to love it; but she knew that there was no scope here for her energies. She must turn her steps southwards; she would not make a third in the little household. Perhaps Mr. Sandford might wish her to remain with him, and she would do this. She told herself she would do whatever was really right. Mr. Stevens, before he left Inchbrae, made Anne Dorriman give him a solemn promise--a promise that she gave him smiling till, she saw him grave. "Promise me, Anne, that, come ill or good fortune, nothing will turn you from marrying me!" "I promise." She said it thoughtfully, and then insisted on his repeating the words. "Now," he said, "if every shilling of your brother's has gone, if you are left without one, still you will be my wife?"