In my sorrow for him I did not notice that we were moving on again, this time in the direction of Windyghoul. "She was only a gypsy girl," he said, abruptly, and I nodded. "But I hoped," he continued, "that she would be my wife." "I understood that," I said. "There was nothing monstrous to you," he asked, looking me in the face, "in a minister's marrying a gypsy?" I own that if I had loved a girl, however far below or above me in degree, I would have married her had she been willing to take me. But to Gavin I only answered, "These are matters a man must decide for himself." "I had decided for myself," he said, emphatically. "Yet," I said, wanting him to talk to me of Margaret, "in such a case one might have others to consider besides himself." "A man's marriage," he answered, "is his own affair, I would have brooked no interference from my congregation." I thought, "There is some obstinacy left in him still;" but aloud I said, "It was of your mother I was thinking." "She would have taken Babbie to her heart," he said, with the fond conviction of a lover. I doubted it, but I only asked, "Your mother knows nothing of her?" "Nothing," he rejoined. "It would be cruelty to tell my mother of her now that she is gone." Gavin's calmness had left him, and he was striding quickly nearer to Windyghoul. I was in dread lest he should see the Egyptian at Nanny's door, yet to have turned him in another direction might have roused his suspicions. When we were within a hundred yards of the mudhouse, I knew that there was no Babbie in sight. We halved the distance and then I saw her at the open window. Gavin's eyes were on the ground, but she saw him. I held my breath, fearing that she would run out to him. "You have never seen her since that night?" Gavin asked me, without hope in his voice. Had he been less hopeless he would have wondered why I did not reply immediately. I was looking covertly at the mudhouse, of which we were now within a few yards. Babbie's face had gone from the window, and the door remained shut. That she could hear every word we uttered now, I could not doubt. But she was hiding from the man for whom her soul longed. She was sacrificing herself for him. "Never," I answered, notwithstanding my pity of the brave girl, and then while I was shaking lest he should go in to visit Nanny, I heard the echo of the Auld Licht bell. "That calls me to the meeting for rain," Gavin said, bidding me good-night. I had acted for Margaret, and yet I had hardly the effrontery to take his hand. I suppose he saw sympathy in my face, for suddenly the cry broke from him-- "If I could only know that nothing evil had befallen her!" Babbie heard him and could not restrain a heart-breaking sob. "What was that?" he said, starting. A moment I waited, to let her show herself if she chose. But the mudhouse was silent again. "It was some boy in the wood," I answered. "Good-bye," he said, trying to smile.