“Jean,” said I, kindly as I could, “what brought you so far from home on such a bitter day? It is not fit. You will get your death of cold.” “I have gotten my death,” she said, with a little gasping laugh, “I have gotten my sentence. Do not I take it well?” And she tried to smile again. Then I went quickly to her, and caught her by the hand, and put my arm about her. For I feared that she would fall prostrate where she stood. Notwithstanding, she kept on smiling through unshed tears, and never for a moment took her eyes off my face. “I heard what you and she said. Yes, I listened. A great lady would not have listened. But I am no better than a little cot-house lass, and I spied upon you. Yes, I hid among the broom. You will never forgive me.” I tried to hush her with kind words, but somehow they seemed to pass her by. I think she did not even hear them. “You love her,” she said; “yes, I know it. Jonita told me that from the first--that I could never be your wife, though I had led you on. Yes, I own it. I tried to win you. A great lady would not. But I did. I threw myself in your way. Shamelessly I cast myself--Jonita says it--into your arms!---- “Ah, God!” she broke off with a little frantic cry, sinking her head between her palms quickly, and then flinging her arms down. “And would I not have cast myself under your feet as readily, that you might trample me? I know I am not long for this world. I ken that I have bartered away eternity for naught. I have lied to God. And why not? You that are a minister, tell me why not? Would not I gladly barter all heaven for one hour of your love on earth? You may despise me, but I loved you. Yes, she is great, fair, full of length of days and pride of life--the Lord of Earlstoun’s daughter. Yet--and yet--and yet, she could not love you better than I. In that I defy her! “And she shall have you--yes, I will give you up to her. For that is the one way an ignorant lass can love. They tell me that by to-morrow you will be no longer minister. You will be put out of the manse like a bird out of a harried nest. And at first I was glad when I heard it. For (thought I) he will come and tell me. We will be poor together. She said the truth, for indeed she knoweth somewhat, this Lady Mary--‘Love is not possessions!’ No, but it is possessing. And I had but one--but one! And that she has taken away from me.” She lifted her kerchief to her lips, for all suddenly a fit of coughing had taken her. In a moment she drew it away, glanced at it quickly, and lo! it was stained with a clear and brilliant red. Then she laughed abruptly, a strange, hollow-sounding little laugh. “I am glad--glad,” she said. “Ah! this is my warrant for departure. Well do I ken the sign, for I mind when my brother Andrew saw it first. Quintin, dear lad, you will get her yet, and with honour.” “Come, Jean,” said I, gently as I could, “the air is shrewd. You are ill and weak. Lean on my arm, and I will take you home.”