"I doubt whether ye see this girl’s character as clearly as I do," said he. "Gentle, and soft, and delicate as she seems to be, she is of the stuff the martyrs in former days were made of: if she believes a thing to be right, she will do it, at any cost or sacrifice. Do ye mind the first evening I met her at your house—how she sate and talked, and laughed, with her sprained ankle swollen and black all the time, just that she might not interfere with the pleasure of others?" The Laird paused for a moment or two. "I have been putting things together," he continued—but he did not seem proud or boastful of his perspicacity: perhaps he would rather have fought against the conclusion forced on him. "When she was up in the north, it seemed to you as if she would have married the young man Sutherland?" "Most undoubtedly." "The lass had her bit fortune then," said the Laird, thoughtfully. "Not much, as ye say; but it would have been an independence. It would have helped him in the world; it would have left him free. And she is proud of what he has done, and as ambeetious as himself that he should become a great man. Ay?" The Laird seemed very anxious about the varnishing of the gig; he kept smoothing it with his forefinger. "And when he came to her the other day—it is but a guess of mine, ma’am—she may have said to herself beforehand that she would not be a drag on him, that she would leave him free to become great and famous, that the sentiment of the moment was a trifling thing compared to what the world expected from Dr. Sutherland. Ye will not forget what she said on that point only the other day. And she may have sent him away—with her own heart just like to break. I have just been putting one or two possibeelities together, ma’am——" The colour had forsaken the cheeks of the woman who stood by his side. "And—and—if she was so cruel—and, and heartless—and, and monstrous—she ought to be horsewhipped!" she exclaimed quite breathlessly, and apparently not knowing what she was saying. But the Laird shook his head. "Poor lass! poor lass!" he said, gently; "she has had her troubles. No doubt the loss of her bit fortune seemed a desperate thing to her; and you know her first anxiety is conteenually for other people—particularly them that have been kind to her—and that she thinks no more of herself than if she had no feelings at all. Well, ma’am, if what I am guessing at is true—it is only a speculation o’ mine, and I am far from sure; but if that is all that has to be put right, I’m thinking it might be put right. We should thank God that we are now and again able to put some small matter straight in the world." The Laird was more busy than ever with the varnish, and he went nearer the boat. His fingers were nervous, and there was a strange, sad look in the sunken grey eyes.