"Well, as you are a wise woman, and love all of the three youngsters, I'll tell you. I sent Richard Cramer out of my way. I sent him where he could not meddle or interfere with what I am doing to make him solvent and happy. And I wanted him to be under authority a little before I put him in full possession of a big estate, free of debt. He has had too much of his own way--he is obeying orders now--that's good for him." "But when you set him free, what then?" "He will marry Marion Macrae, and I count on a Macrae--man or woman--getting their full share of their own way in all things." "Why did he not come and bid Marion good-bye last night? She is fairly ill this morning. Why did he not come?" "Because, while the Minister and he were explaining themselves, a telegram came ordering him to join his ship without a moment's delay. She was going to sail Thursday, instead of Saturday. I had two men seeking him, and his valet had packed his valise, and he had twenty minutes to reach his train. He could not have written her, even a line, if someone had not been thoughtful enough to have paper and pencil ready to push into his hand." "Then he did write to her?" "Ay, he wrote to her. Poor lad, he was near to crying as he did so." "She never got that letter." "My certie! I forgot it! Will you take it?" "Will I take it? It is what I came for. Goodness! Gracious! Only to think of you keeping what may be his last message to her! O man, how could you? It is a cruel-like thing to do. It was that." "I am very sorry for it. I quite forgot. I am not used to sending love letters. I never was in love in my life." "I am not believing you. No, sir! I am sure some good woman's love sweetened the dour, ill-tempered Macrae blood in your heart. Think backward a matter of forty years and you will maybe remember her name." He looked at Mrs. Caird in amazement, and then lifted her hand, "You are right," he answered slowly. "I remember her, a dear, sweet girl, fresh and pure as the mountain bluebells she had in her hand when we first met. She died one morning--whispering my name as she went. I loved her! Yes, I loved her!" "Good man! I am glad you told me. I know you now, and I am not feared for you any longer. Give me Marion's letter." "Cannot you stay half an hour longer?" "Not now." "I want to talk to you about Ian." "You had better talk to him. He is requiring some one to do so. He is spelling life now with a woman's name." "Marion's?" "No." "The lovely widow Grant's?" "No. You must look higher up." "You don't--you can't mean Lady Cramer?" "Just Lady Cramer." "The mischief! Is it true?" "True? I should say so. I am living at his side, and love and a cold can't be hid. Forbye, he is reading books he has no business to read, and writing letters he ought not to write--love letters." "Why should he not write love letters if he wishes to do so?" "Because I am sure my Lady Cramer is only making a fool of him."