Cecilia entered, and, through a passage window, she could see Macquean in a rusty black coat, sitting on a stone-heap outside. ‘Come here, a’ tell ye!’ cried the Queen of the Cadgers. Cecilia saw him shake his head. ‘Ye’d be mair use as a golloch[1] than a man,’ said Granny, throwing the reins to her grandson, who was coming towards them. [1] Blackbeetle. Cecilia went into a room and sat down on a window-seat; most of the furniture was put away, and what was left had been covered up carefully by Granny and Macquean. Clementina’s portrait was gone from the wall, as well as that of the bay coach-horse, and the alcoves by the fireplace were empty of books. She sat and gazed at the bare beech-trees and the fields between Whanland and the sand-hills. He must have looked out at that view every day, and her eyes drank it in; the garden wall and the stable buildings broke its flat lines. Being on the ground floor, she could not see the sea; but the heaven above, with its long-drawn, fine clouds, wore the green-gray which suggests an ocean-sky. She was quite calm by the time Granny came in and stood beside her. The old woman, though softened and puzzled, was yet in an inquisitorial mind; she stood before the window-seat, her arms akimbo and her skirt turned up and drawn through the placket-hole, for she had been cleaning. ‘An’ what gar’d ye put Whanland awa’ if ye liket him sae weel?’ she asked again. ‘Dod, that wasna the gait a’ wad hae gaed when a’ was a lassie!’ ‘I cannot speak about it,’ answered Cecilia, rising, her face set; ‘there is no use in asking me. I was forced to do it. God knows I have no heart left. Oh, Granny! if he could but come back! In two months I shall be married.’ The Queen of the Cadgers stood silent; there was so much more in the matter than she had suspected; Cecilia might be a fool, but she was not the cold-hearted flirt whom she had pictured torturing Gilbert for her own entertainment. ‘It’s ill work mendin’ ae man’s breeks when yer hairt’s in anither ane’s pocket,’ she said. Though mirth was far, indeed, from her, Cecilia could not help smiling at this crusty cutting from the loaf of wisdom. ‘Ah! ye may lauch now,’ exclaimed Granny solemnly, ‘but what ’ll ye do when he comes hame, an’ you married? Ye’ll need to mind yersel’ then.’ Neither of the women knew on how appropriate a spot the warning was offered, as they stood within a few feet of Clementina Speid’s empty place upon the wall. ‘I shall be gone,’ answered Cecilia. ‘I pray that I may never see his face again.’ ‘Wad ye tak’ him, syne he was hame?’ ‘Do you mean if he were to come now?’ asked Cecilia. ‘Ay.’ ‘Oh, Granny, stop--there is no use in thinking or hoping.’ ‘Wad ye gang wi’ him?’ persisted the old woman.