"But I do not fear," he said (his eyes, with some brilliancy still left in them, fixed on her, his voice low and panting). "You have an inheritance, Maisrie—it is in your blood—a sympathy—an insight—Scotland claims you—as one of her own. I knew that when—when—you used to play the Scotch airs for me—the trembling string, that made the soul tremble too—’The sun shines bright in France’—’The Lowlands o’ Holland, that twined my love and me’—it was Scotch blood that made them thrill. Ye’ll not be disappointed, Margaret—ye’ll understand—when ye get to Yarrow—and Ettrick Water—and the murmur of the Tweed. I meant—to have taken ye myself—but it was not to be—ye’ll have younger and happier guidance—as is but natural—I—I wish ye both well. And—and I would like ye—to go in the spring-time, Maisrie—and—and if ye could find out William Motherwell’s grave—I have forgotten where it is—my memory is not what it used to be—but if ye could find out Motherwell’s grave—ye might put a handful of primroses on it—for the sake of—of _Jeanie Morrison_." He relapsed into silence; his breathing grew more laboured—and also feebler; it was evident to those standing by that the end was not far off now. Maisrie sate holding his hand in hers; the fountain of her tears all dried up; her tragic grief seemed to have turned her to stone. Even those spring days of which he had spoken—when she would have her young husband by her side—they would want something. Her grandfather had been kind to her; and they had been through many years together. He lay thus for nearly half-an-hour, the tide of life slowly receding. He made but one final effort to speak—nay, for a second, it seemed as if he would raise his head to give effect to his last proud protestation. "Maisrie—Maisrie—they never saw me cowed—never once! I met—ill fortune—or good—face to face ... I held—by the watchword—of our house—Stand—Fast—Craig-Royston! ..." It was his last breath. And so, with a lie on his lips, but with none in his heart, old George Bethune passed away: passed away from a world that had perhaps understood him but none too well. THE END. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. * * * * * * * * NOVELS BY WILLIAM BLACK. _Crown 8vo. 6s. each._ THE NEW PRINCE FORTUNATUS. IN FAR LOCHABER. THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A HOUSE-BOAT. A DAUGHTER OF HETH. KILMENY. THREE FEATHERS. LADY SILVERDALE’S SWEETHEART. IN SILK ATTIRE. SUNRISE. THE PENANCE OF JOHN LOGAN. SAMPSON LOW AND CO., LIMITED, LONDON.