"Yours faithfully and obediently, "VINCENT HARRIS." After sending off that letter the young man’s spirits lightened considerably; he saw there was still a chance that Maisrie Bethune, her grandfather, and himself might together set out on that coveted perambulation of the legend-haunted districts of the North. And now he and they had returned to their ordinary mode of life—which perhaps pleased him better than the ostentatious festivities of Henley. Here was no staring crowd, here were no suspicious friends, to break in upon their close and constant companionship. He rejoiced in this isolation; he wished for no fourth person at the quiet little dinners in the restaurants; he had no desire that anyone should share the privacy of the hushed small parlour where old George Bethune loftily discoursed of poetry and philosophy, of ancient customs and modern manners, and where Maisrie played pathetic Scotch airs on the violin, or sang in her low clear voice of _le pont d’Avignon_ or perhaps of _Marianson, dame jolie_. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive, and that with an ever-increasing delight, that her old expression of sad and wistful resignation was gradually being banished from her eyes; and not only that, but a quite fresh colour was come into her cheeks, so that the pale sun-tinge was less perceptible. Perhaps it was the companionship of one nearer to her own age that had made a difference in her life; at all events much of her former shyness was gone; she met his look frankly, sometimes with a touch of gratitude, sometimes with simple gladness, as if his mere presence was something that pleased her. When she was watering the flowers in the little balcony, and caught sight of him over the way, she nodded and smiled: he wondered whether it was that faint-sun-tinge of the complexion that made her teeth seem so clearly white. He began to forget those dreams of a wide intervening sea: this present existence was so peaceable, and contented, and happy. And in spite of Maisrie’s injunction, those dreams of Scotland would recur: he saw three newly-arrived strangers walking along Princes Street, Edinburgh, in the silver glare of the morning; and the middle one of the three—looking away up to the dusky shadows of the Castle rock—was no other than Maisrie Bethune herself, with light and gladness shining in her eyes.