Now it seems a strange thing that I, who had so long played the lover to Kate Allison, should be laid by the heels in her father’s house, hearing the whip and frisk of her gown about the chambers all the day. And I still loved to hear it, for she was a bonny lass—and kind, kind to me. Also her eyes were pleasant, and had both mischief and tears in them—not like Nell Kennedy’s, that held only mischief and scorn—save once, as it seemed to me, a little while when I was deadly fevered, and when Dr Low of Ayr, the Earl of Cassillis’s own physician, ordered me herb-drinks, and shook his doting wiseacre’s head over me like a most melancholious billy-goat. Then for a little Nell’s eyes were quiet and sorrowful. But it did not last. For by the time that I could get a scheme laid to take advantage of the gleam of kindness, she was again but mine own ill-set lassie-boy of a Nell, and we were throng at the sparring and quarrelling just as usual. But, as I say, Kate Allison was wondrously kind to me. Many a night when the weather was hot, and my wounds paining me as though they would break again open, would she sit by me with clear caller water from the spring, tirelessly changing the soft linen cloths. And when the drops of fever-sweat stood on my brow, she would touch them gently away, and lay her own cool cheek against my forehead. Ay, and when I put my hand up and drew down her face, she would kiss me right frankly upon the lips. Yet, as I judged, not quite as of old. But I thought it might be the illness that made the difference, for with being sick in body and feverish in mind, nothing tastes the same. And so I thought it might be also with kisses. But after I had grown stronger, I shall ever mind me of one night when I got a horrid awakening. It was a quiet gloaming. Kate Allison and I had the house to ourselves—to which, speaking for myself, I did not wholly object. I lay stretched upon the long oaken settle, on cushions which Nell Kennedy had brought from the great house. Kate sat beside me on a stool and leaned an elbow on the oak’s edge. She was unwontedly silent, and sometimes I touched her cheek lightly with my hand. It was a most pleasant night, and my mind was full of pity and consideration for her. I bethought me that, though doubtless I could have looked higher, I might do worse in time than think of settling down with a sweet and pleasant lass like Kate Allison. It was also touching to me that she should never have wavered from loving me, all the time that I had been forgetting her and thinking of others. But that, I said to myself, is the way of women. We were silent a great while, with the silence that needs no speech, and my heart had grown melting and kindly to the young lass, even as it had been in old days. All of a sudden she spoke. ’Launce,’ said she, ’I’m going to be married!’