“My poor bairn is subject to a sore infirmity,” she said, “and for that she should be the more pitied of all Christian folk. A gentleman like you will neither look at her nor speak to her but as you ought. I am asking nothing of you. It’s my part to keep my own safe. All I pray is that if you should meet her in the road you would pass on the other side, or turn away your face. That’s little to do. I can take care of my own.” “My good woman, you are not very complimentary,” said Arthur; and then he went and gazed down once more upon the sleeping figure in the grass. His gaze was not that of a pure-minded or sympathetic spectator. He looked at her with a half smile, noting her beauty and childish grace. “She is very young, I suppose?” he said. “Poor little thing! What did the man who was like me do to frighten her so? And I wonder who he was? The resemblance must be very great.” “He brought grief and trouble to our house,” said Mrs. Murray, who had risen, and stood screening her child with a jealous mother’s instinct. “Sir, I am much obliged to you. But, oh! if you would be kinder still, and go on your way! We are complaining of nothing, neither my bairn nor me.” “Your ‘bairn,’ as you call her, is mighty pretty,” said Arthur Arden. “Look here, buy her a ribbon or something with this, as some amends for having frightened her. What, you won’t have it? Nonsense! I shall probably never see her again. You need not be afraid of me.” “I am no afraid of any man,” said Mrs. Murray; “if you would leave us free in this spot, where we’re harming nobody. Good day to you, sir. Give your siller to the next poor body. It’s no wanted by me.”