In the gray quiet of the evening we roamed about the lonely gardens, and threaded our way through the rank, neglected shrubberies. Wandering here and wandering there, we drifted into the kitchen garden--with one little patch still sparely cultivated by the old man and his wife, and all the rest a wilderness of weeds. Beyond the far end of the garden, divided from it by a low paling of wood, there stretched a patch of waste ground, sheltered on three sides by trees. In one lost corner of the ground an object, common enough elsewhere, attracted my attention here. The object was a dust-heap. The great size of it, and the curious situation in which it was placed, aroused a moment’s languid curiosity in me. I stopped, and looked at the dust and ashes, at the broken crockery and the old iron. Here there was a torn hat, and there some fragments of rotten old boots, and scattered around a small attendant litter of torn paper and frowzy rags. “What are you looking at?” asked Mr. Playmore. “At nothing more remarkable than the dust-heap,” I answered. “In tidy England, I suppose, you would have all that carted away out of sight,” said the lawyer. “We don’t mind in Scotland, as long as the dust-heap is far enough away not to be smelt at the house. Besides, some of it, sifted, comes in usefully as manure for the garden. Here the place is deserted, and the rubbish in consequence has not been disturbed. Everything at Gleninch, Mrs. Eustace (the big dust-heap included), is waiting for the new mistress to set it to rights. One of these days you may be queen here--who knows?” “I shall never see this place again,” I said. “Never is a long day,” returned my companion. “And time has its surprises in store for all of us.” We turned away, and walked back in silence to the park gate, at which the carriage was waiting. On the return to Edinburgh, Mr. Playmore directed the conversation to topics entirely unconnected with my visit to Gleninch. He saw that my mind stood in need of relief; and he most good-naturedly, and successfully, exerted himself to amuse me. It was not until we were close to the city that he touched on the subject of my return to London. “Have you decided yet on the day when you leave Edinburgh?” he asked. “We leave Edinburgh,” I replied, “by the train of to-morrow morning.” “Do you still see no reason to alter the opinions which you expressed yesterday? Does your speedy departure mean that?” “I am afraid it does, Mr. Playmore. When I am an older woman, I may be a wiser woman. In the meantime, I can only trust to your indulgence if I still blindly blunder on in my own way.” He smiled pleasantly, and patted my hand--then changed on a sudden, and looked at me gravely and attentively before he opened his lips again. “This is my last opportunity of speaking to you before you go,” he said. “May I speak freely?” “As freely as you please, Mr. Playmore. Whatever you may say to me will only add to my grateful sense of your kindness.”