"How are you, Nannie? Why, you look just the same as ever, I do declare! Not a day older. So you see I've come back." "And a braw welcome to ye, laddie," says the old Scotchwoman, looking up at the tall well-built figure and handsome face, with a world of love and pride and admiration in her dim and loving eyes. "Hech, sir, but it's strong and fine ye look the day, and none the worse for all the foreign countries where ye've stayed sae long. Aye, and it's proud I am to see ye back. Sit ye doon, sir--sit ye doon, and tell me a' the news. My auld heart's been just sair for word o' ye this mony a day." "I will tell you about myself by-and-by, Nannie," the young fellow says impatiently. "Meanwhile tell me what's going on here. Is it a morning party, or a reception, or some new-fangled social rubbish? Where's Lauraine?" "Miss Lauraine is awa' at the kirk," says the old woman gently. "Canna ye tell what it's a' aboot, dearie?" "Church"--falters the young man. Then the idea flashes across him, his bronzed face falls, an evil light comes into the blue eyes under the shade of their long lashes. "She's not--not married, Nannie?" The old woman nods her head and lays her hand gently on his arm. "Ay, laddie, wedded this morn. She bade me tell ye, with her love, that she was happy; that she hoped to see ye, her auld friend and playmate--and would ye wait here till her return?" "Happy is she?" His voice is very cold and stern. His blue eyes flash angrily. Then a short harsh laugh escapes his lips. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, though the news is unexpected. Married--Lorry married! God! What a fool I've been!" He gets up and walks over to the window and looks out, though nothing does he see of the objects on which he gazes so intently. "Married!" so run his thoughts; "and to-day, too! Couldn't she have waited? Couldn't she have told me? It is three months since I wrote to her mother, and not a line. And I--like an idiot--taking silence for consent, and rushing back here as fast as steam could take me. Married! Good Heaven! I can't believe it. Lorry, my darling little playmate, my sweetheart--the girl who vowed to be true to me for ever--married! Never to be mine--another man's wife! O God! What am I to do?" He groans aloud at this juncture, and the sympathizing old woman comes to him and her heart aches for her nursling's sorrow. "Dinna take on so," she says; "ye were but bairns togither; ye could na' tell how ye're minds would agree in time to come." He turns away from the window, and walks to his seat and flings himself moodily back. It is too early to accept consolation, but he takes refuse in hot anger. He rails against womankind--their wiles and ways, their treachery and fickleness, until poor old Nannie is bewildered. His fury vents itself in this manner for the space of a good half-hour, during which time Nannie listens and agrees and consoles to the best of her ability, but with very poor results.