At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked up—glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously appealing way. She seemed to say ’Grandfather, you forget: it is not Balloray, it is Binnorie;’ and again ’Vincent, he has forgotten: that is all.’ But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses— "Ye couldna see her yellow hair, Balloray, O Balloray, For gowd and pearls that were sae rare, By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray. Ye couldna see her middle sma’, Balloray, O Balloray, Her gowden girdle was sae braw, By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray. Ye couldna see her lily feet, Balloray, O Balloray, Her gowden fringes were sae deep, By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray. ’Sair will they be, whae’er they be, Balloray, O Balloray, The hearts that live to weep for thee!’ By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Balloray!" "It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if the new work were just ready for press. But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone, Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the fireplace. "What have I done, Vincent?" she said. "Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes. "I have a right to know," she said, proudly. "It is nothing," said he. "I—I made a mistake; that is all." She looked at him in mute reproach: then she turned away, and went back to her seat. There was a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took that into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes were downcast; he was free to go now, when he chose. But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second or two of vacillation, he followed her. "Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone, "perhaps it’s all a mistake on my part. If so, I am sorry. I don’t want to vex you— "I don’t want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a somewhat low voice. "Tell me what it is."