And with that he betook him to the nearest window, and without ceremony pushed it open, for the readiest way was ever Sandy Gordon’s way. Then he roared for his wife and daughter till the noise shook the tower like an earthquake. In a moment Mary Gordon came out and stood on the doorstep with her fingers in her ears, pretending a pretty anger. “What an unwholesome uproar, father! Well do they call you the Bull of Earlstoun, and say that they hear you over the hill at Ardoch bidding the herd lads to be quiet!” Then seeing me (as it appeared) for the first time, she came forward and took my hand simply, and with a pleasant open frankness. “You will come in and rest, will you not?” she said. “Are you here on business with my father?” “Nay,” said I, smiling at her; “I have no business save that of bidding you farewell.” “Farewell!” cried she, dropping the needle-work she held in her hand, “why farewell?” “I go far away to a new and untried work. I know not when nor how I shall return.” She gave a little quick shivering gasp, as if she had been about to speak. “At the least, come in and see my mother,” she said, and led the way within. But when we had gone into the long oaken chamber naught of the Lady of Earlstoun was to be seen. And the laird himself cried up to Mary to entertain me till he should speak to his grieve over at the cottage. In the living room of Earlstoun was peace and the abiding pleasant sense of on ordered home. As soon as she had shut the door the lass turned upon me. “You have truly given up your parish?” she said, holding her hands before her with the fingers clasped firmly together. I nodded. “And you are journeying to the west to join the Hill-folk?” I smiled as I looked into her deep and anxious eyes. “Again you have rightly divined,” I said. “And what stipend are ye to get from them?” “I am to have no stipend. It has not been mentioned between us.” “O Quintin!” she cried suddenly, her eyes growing ever larger and darker, till the pupil seemed to invade the iris and swallow it up. But though I waited for her to speak further she said nothing more. So I went on to tell her how I was going to the west to spend my life among the poor folk there who had been so long without a shepherd. “And would you”--she paused--“would you leave us all?” “Nay,” said I, “for this Earlstoun shall ever be a kindly and a beloved spot to me. Often when the ways are long and dreary, the folk unfriendly, will my heart turn in hither. And, whenever I am in Galloway, be sure that I will not pass you by. Your father hath been a good and loving friend to me.” “My father!” she cried, with a little disdainful outward pout of the lip. “Aye, and you also, Mistress Mary. You have been all too kind to a broken man--a man who, when the few coins he carries in his purse are expended, knows not whence he will get his next golden guinea.”