‘You think that because I pitied you and gave you money to save you from starvation that I forgot what a vile being you are. You helped to lay a snare for your cousin, who never so much as lifted a finger against you. You would have seen him sent into penal servitude innocent, that you might get this money. I never heard of such baseness. I could not have conceived that anyone could have been so mean, so cruel!’ ‘It wasn’t my idea; I never knew what was going on.’ ‘You changed the wills; and you were ready to swear your cousin’s liberty away, and let him spend his life in prison, while you----And you think you can come here and ask me to marry you as if you were not known. What did you take me for? Can you not imagine that a girl would die a thousand times rather than marry such as you? I think you had better go.’ Her last words were not needed. Semple hung his head like a slave caught in a theft, and slunk out of the room. CHAPTER XXXVIII. TWO YEARS AFTER. A tall bearded man walked slowly up the side of a steep ravine, leading a tired horse by the bridle. His hands were plunged deep in his trousers-pockets, and his brows were knitted in deep thought. He wore the regulation Australian costume--flannel shirt and silk scarf, straw hat, rough trousers, and enormous boots. It was Alec Lindsay. Two years of the dry bracing air of Australia had done wonders for him. His cheeks and hands were brown as a nut, his muscles strong and springy as when he used to run up the sides of the Highland hills; not a trace of weakness was left in his frame. When the ascent was climbed, the traveller came upon a rough path running along the upper edge of the gully, which brought him to a shepherd’s hut. This had been Alec’s home for the last fifteen months. Here he had lived, contentedly enough, dreaming now and then of the big world so far away, but never hankering after it, deeming it a pleasant piece of excitement if a traveller dropped in with a fortnight-old newspaper in his pocket. As he drew near the hut, a short, thick-set man with a black beard, which resembled a section of a sweep’s brush, appeared at the doorway, and stood waiting for his companion’s approach. ‘Well?’ he inquired, as Alec came up. ‘I saw Martin,’ said Alec; ‘and I ordered the flour, and the other things. The wash for the sheep will be sent over on Saturday.’ Bill Cutbush gave a grunt, by way of acknowledging the information. ‘I went round by the post-office.’ ‘Ah!’ growled Bill. ‘That’s what’s made you so late. You didn’t get any letters for me, I fancy? No billy-doos, or such-like?’ ‘There was a letter and a paper for you,’ answered Alec, producing them from his pouch. Bill stared at them as if he were half afraid of them. ‘Blest if I ain’t forgot how to read such things,’ he said, with a short laugh, as he thrust them into his pocket, and turned away. ‘I got a letter too,’ began Alec. ‘I think, Bill----’