“Ye 're astonished, an' it's nae wunder”--for the look in Marget's grey eyes demanded more--“but what a' say is true. It hes never been for himsel he's pinched an' bargained; it wes for... for a freend he wantit tae help, an' that wes aye in tribble. He thocht 'at it micht... hurt his freend's feelin's and pit him tae shame in his pairish gin it were kent, so he took the shame himsel. A' daurna tell ye mair, for it wud be brakin' bonds at ween man and man, but ye 've herd eneuch tae clear Drumsheugh's name wi' ae wumman.” “Mair than cleared, doctor,” and Marget's face glowed, “far mair, for ye 've shown me that the Sermon on the Mount is no a dead letter the day, an' ye 've lifted the clood frae a gude man. Noo a'll juist hae the rael Drumsheugh, Geordie's Drumsheugh,” and again Marget thanked Maclure afresh. For the moment the heroism of the deed had carried her away, but as she went home the pity of it all came over her. For the best part of his life had this man been toiling and suffering, all that another might have comfort, and all this travail without the recompense of love. What patience, humility, tenderness, sacrifice lay in unsuspected people. How long?... Perhaps thirty years, and no one knew, and no one said, “Well done!” He had veiled his good deeds well, and accepted many a jest that must have cut him to the quick. Marget's heart began to warm to this unassuming man as it had not done even by George's chair. The footpath from the doctor's to Whinnie Knowe passed along the front of the hill above the farm of Drumsheugh, and Marget came to the cottage where she had lived with her mother in the former time. It was empty, and she went into the kitchen. How home-like it had been in those days, and warm, even in winter, for Drumsheugh had made the wright board over the roof and put in new windows. Her mother was never weary speaking of his kindness, yet they were only working people. The snow had drifted down the wide chimney and lay in a heap on the hearth, and Marget shivered. The sorrow of life came upon her--the mother and the son now lying in the kirkyard. Then the blood rushed to her heart again, for love endures and triumphs. But sorrow without love... her thoughts returned to Drumsheugh, whose hearthstone was cold indeed. She was now looking down on his home, set in the midst of the snow. Its cheerlessness appealed to her--the grey sombre house where this man, with his wealth of love, lived alone. Was not that Drumsheugh himself crossing the laigh field, a black figure on the snow, with his dog behind him... going home where there was none to welcome him... thinking, perhaps, what might have been?... Suddenly Marget stopped and opened a gate.... Why should he not have company for once in his lonely life... if the woman he loved had been hard to him, why should not one woman whom he had not loved take her place for one half hour?