“I will tell my sister,” said Mr. Leslie, and he swung open the gate and waited till Rob passed through. “Good-night,” said the young man. It was better in any case to be courteous and friendly, if they would permit it, with “the family.” But Mr. Leslie only made an indistinct murmur in the darkness. He gave no articulate response; there was no cordiality on his side; and why, indeed, should he be cordial to the farmer’s son? Rob went quickly homeward, forcing a smile of contempt, though there was nobody to see. This haughty and distant personage would yet learn to respond to any salutation his sister’s husband might make; he would have to be civil, if nothing more, Rob said within himself. What was he that he should be so high and mighty? An Edinburgh advocate working for his living, a poor laird at the best, with a ramshackle old house for all his inheritance. Thus the vulgar came uppermost again in Rob’s heart; he scorned for his poverty the man with whom he was indignant for scorning him, because he was unknown and poor. He hurried home with this little fillip of additional energy given to all his schemes. His mother was standing at the door as he approached, looking out for him, or perhaps only looking to see the last of the cows looming through the dusk coming in from the fields. He was absent every night, and Mrs. Glen wanted to know where he went. She was getting impatient on all points, and had determined to wait no longer for any information he might have to give. “Where have you been?” she asked, as he came in sight. “To Earl’s-hall.” “To Earl’s-hall! And what have you been doing at Earl’s-hall? No drawing and fiddling while the poor auld man lies dying? Ye’re ill enough, but surely you have not the heart for that?” “I have neither been drawing nor fiddling--indeed I did not know that I could fiddle; but, all the same, I have come from Earl’s-hall,” he said. “Let me in, mother; I’ve been sitting in the wood, and the night has got cold.” “What have you been doing--sitting in the wood? There’s no light to take your views--tell me,” said Mrs. Glen, with determination, “what have you been doing, once for all.” “I may as well tell you,” he said; “I have been sitting in the wood with Margaret.” “With--Margaret? you’re no blate to speak o’ a young lady like that. Rob, my bonnie man, I aye thought you were to be the lucky bairn of my family. Have ye naething mair to tell me about--Margaret? I would like weel, real weel, to hear.” “Can you keep a secret, mother?” he said. “I will tell you something if you will swear to me never to repeat it, never to hint at it, never to brag of what is coming, or to give the slightest ground for suspicion: if you will promise me this--” “I was never a tale-pyet,” said Mrs. Glen, offended, “nobody ever laid tittle-tattle, or bragging of ony kind, to my door. But if you canna trust your mother without promises, I see not why you should trust her at all.”