They spoke of Robert Burns, and they spoke of Nancy, unravelling that terrible entanglement of the past. Herries spoke with a new gentleness, and Alison, as she heard him, pressed close to his side. ’You forgive them—you do forgive them—don’t you, Archie?’ she whispered. ’For, you know, Nancy never dreamed how deeply she injured us, and he—the man—knew not what he did. We cannot be happy if we leave them unforgiven!’ Herries did not answer, for his heart was big within him, and in his ears was the sound of a voice, now stilled for ever, pleading for that forgiveness which the sweet woman at his side now urged upon him. ’"_Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors!_"’ said he, at last, in the same words, and they fell from him with a sigh. ’I must go now,’ said Alison, at last, ’for I dare not linger. I have stayed too long.’ ’Nay, but I’ll not let you, Alison,’ said Herries, ’till it is promised me that our parting is at an end, and that I can come and ask you of your parents this very day. Why not?’ Alison stood still and looked at him, and in her eyes was a something akin to that compassion with which you will see a mother look at her careless and unconscious child. ’Nay, Archie,’ she said faintly. ’I had been thinking that you knew.... But that’s all gone and done with now. I have no freedom to go with any man. I cannot leave my home.’ ’But, by the God that is above us, you shall—and with me!’ said Herries, violently. ’I will permit no second sacrifice of our love and life.’ ’Come with me—home, Archie,’ said Alison, gently, ’and I’ll show you what I cannot tell you.’ In a brooding silence they went to unloose Herries’s horse, which had pawed the ground beneath him to a pulp. A lad took it from them as they went towards the house. ’I am taking you to my father’s room,’ said Alison, in a low voice. She led him down the dark narrow passage to the library. ’Here are two steps in the dark—take care,’ she whispered, and as he stumbled he felt her guiding hand come out to him. She opened the library door, and in the warm light of the summer evening that came in through the little deep-set windows, Herries saw the laird of The Mains. Alas! for the four-bottle man—our jovial ancestor of a drinking age! His life may have been a merry one, but it was generally short, and often before middle age the gout would get him at his vitals, or deathly paralysis lay him by the heels. It was the latter vengeance that had overtaken the laird of The Mains—pinning him helpless, and almost speechless, to his great lug-chair by the fire for which he shivered even in the hottest day. There he sat, huddled in gown and slippers, the wreck of a man at fifty-six, and behind him, rudely carved upon the green stone mantel, Herries read the doleful legend, which seemed the text of a wordless but expressive sermon: _’In human life there’s nothing steadfast stands,_ _Youth, Glorie, Riches fades. Death’s sure at hand.’_