I was silent for a while and only looked steadily at her. She moved her feet this way and that on the floor uncertainly. Her grace and favour cried out to me anew. “As for me, Mary,” I said, “I need not tell you that I love you. I have loved you ever since I met you on the Bennan brae-face. But now more greatly--more terribly that I love altogether without hope. I had not meant to speak again, but only to take your hand once thus--and get me gone!” Impulsively she held her fingers out to me and I clasped them in mine. I thought she was ready to bid me farewell, and that she desired not to prolong the pain of the interview. “Fare thee well then, Mary,” said I. “I have loved the cause because it is the Cause of the Weak. I have striven to raise again the Banner of Blue. I have loved my people. But none of these hath this aching, weary heart loved as it has loved Mary Gordon. I have neither heart nor right to speak of my love, nor house nor home to offer. I can but go!” “Speak on,” she said, a little breathlessly, but never once taking her eyes from my face. “There is no other word to tell, Mary,” said I. “I have spoken the word, and now there remains but to turn about and set face forward as bravely as may be, to shut out the pleasant vision, seen for a moment, to leave behind for ever the heart’s desire----” “No! No! No!” she interrupted, jerking her clasped hands quickly downward. “To lay aside the deep, unspoken hopes of a man who has never loved woman before----” She came a little nearer to me, still exploring my face with her eyes, as I spoke the last words. “Did you not, Quintin? Are you sure?” “I have never loved before,” said I, “because I have loved Mary Gordon from the beginning, yea, every day and every hour since I was a herd boy on the hills. Once I was filled with pride and the security of position. But of these the Lord hath stripped me. I am well-nigh as poor as when I came into the world. I have nothing now to offer you or any woman.” “Nay,” she cried, speaking very quickly and suddenly, laying her clasped hands on my arm, “you are rich--rich, Quintin! Listen, lad! There is one that loves you now--who has loved you long. Do you not understand? Must I, that am a maid, speak for myself? Must I say, _I love you, Quintin?_” And then she smiled suddenly, gloriously, like the sun bursting through black and leaden clouds. Oh, sweet and perilously sweet was her smile! “Mary,” I cried, suddenly, “you are not playing with me? Ah, for God’s dear sake, do not that! It would break my heart. You _cannot_ love a man broken, penniless, outcast, one of a down-trodden and despised folk. You must not give yourself to one whose future path is lone and desolate!” “_I love you, Quintin!_” “One who has nothing to offer, nothing to give, not even the shelter of a roof-tree--a wanderer, a beggar!” “_I love you, Quintin!_”