_Ang._ Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken hairt! (_CHEVIOT gives ANGUS money._) Fare thee weel, my love--my childhood’s--boyhood’s--manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed! But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him--and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break! [_Exit into cottage, in great agony._ _Mag._ (_looking wistfully after him_). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I did na ken till noo how weel he loved me! _Ch._ Maggie, I’m almost sorry I--poor lad, poor fellow! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (_Aside._) This is weakness! (_Aloud._) Maggie my own--ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will we not? _Mag._ Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed! [_Exit, weeping, into cottage._ _Ch._ Poor little Lowland lassie! That’s my idea of a wife. No ridiculous extravagance; no expensive tastes. Knows how to dress like a lady on £5 a year; ah, and does it too! No pretence there of being blind to her own beauties; she knows that she is beautiful, and scorns to lie about it. In that respect she resembles Symperson’s dear daughter, Minnie. My darling Minnie. (_Looks at miniature._) My own darling Minnie. Minnie is fair, Maggie is dark. Maggie loves me! That excellent and perfect country creature loves me! She is to be the light of my life, my own to come! In some respects she is even prettier than Minnie--my darling Minnie, Symperson’s dear daughter, the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is growing; my Past, my Present, and my Future, my own To Come! But this tendency to reverie is growing on me; I must shake it off. _Enter MISS TREHERNE._ Heaven and earth, what a singularly lovely girl! _Miss T._ A stranger! Pardon me, I will withdraw!-- _Ch._ A stranger indeed, in one sense, inasmuch as he never had the happiness of meeting you before--but, in that he has a heart that can sympathize with another’s misfortune, he trusts he may claim to be regarded almost as a friend. _Miss T._ May I ask, sir, to what misfortunes you allude? _Ch._ I--a--do not know their precise nature, but that perception would indeed be dull, and that heart would be indeed flinty, that did not at once perceive that you are very very unhappy. Accept, madam, my deepest and most respectful sympathy. _Miss T._ You have guessed rightly, sir! I am indeed a most unhappy woman.