“I wouldna wonder,” said Nelly, shortly; “but you see, Miss Menie, our Johnnie’s a weel-doing lad, and might hae lookit higher, meaning nae offence to you; though nae doubt it’s true what Randall Home said when he was speaking about this. ‘Lithgow,’ says he (for he ca’s Johnnie by his last name--it’s a kind o’ fashion hereaway), ‘if you get naething wi’ your wife, I will take care to see you’re no cumbered wi’ onybody but hersel;’ which nae doubt is a great comfort, seeing there might hae been a haill troop o’ friends, now that Johnnie’s getting up in the world.” “What was that Randall Home said?” Menie asked the question in a very clear distinct tone, cold and steady and unfaltering--“What do you say he said?--tell me again.” “He said, Johnnie wouldna be troubled wi’ nane o’ her friends,” said Nelly; “though he has her to keep, a bit wee silly thing, that can do naething in a house--and nae doubt a maid to keep to her forby--that he wouldna hae ony o’ her friends a burden on him; and a very wise thing to say, and a great comfort. I aye said he was a sensible lad, Randall Home. Eh, preserve me!” For Randall Home stands before her, his eyes glowing on her with haughty rage. He has heard it, every single deliberate word, and Randall is no coward--he comes in person to answer for what he has said. Rise, Menie Laurie! Slowly they gather over us, these kind shadows of the coming night; no one can see the momentary faltering which inclines you to throw yourself down there upon the very ground, and weep your heart out. Rise; it is you who are stately now. “This is true?” She is so sure of it, that there needs no other form of question, and Menie lays her hand upon the table to support herself, and stands firmly before him waiting for his answer. Why is it that now, at this moment, when she should be most strong, the passing wind brings to her, as in mockery, an echo of whispering mingled voices--the timid happiness of July Home? But Menie draws up her light figure, draws herself apart from the touch of her companions, and stands, as she fancies she most do henceforth, all her life, alone. “This is true?” “I would disdain myself, if I tried to escape by any subterfuge,” said Randall, proudly. “I might answer that I never said the words this woman attributes to me; but that I do not need to tell you. I would not deceive you, Menie. I never can deny what I have given expression to; and you are right--it is true.” And Randall thinks he hears a voice, wavering somewhere, far off, and distant like an echo--not coming from these pale lips which move and form the words, but falling out upon the air--faint, yet distinct, not to be mistaken. “I am glad you have told me. I thank you for making no difficulty about it: this is very well.” “Menie! you are not moved by this gossip’s story? This that I said has no effect on you? Menie! is a woman like this to make a breach between you and me?”