"And why of the _stranger_, dame?" added he. "I have hitherto thought that the charity of _friends_ was that which might be most easily borne. And who may be your benefactor?" "Hector Hayston of Whitecraigs," replied she, hanging her head, and drawing a deep breath. The stranger detected the same symptoms of pain in the mother as those he had observed in the daughter. "Then forgets he not his cottars in his absence," he added. "But why has he left a retreat fairer than any I have yet seen throughout a long pilgrimage over many lands?" "We will not speak of that," she replied, rising slowly, and going to the window, where she stood for a time in silence. "You have a daughter, dame," resumed the man, as he watched the indications of movement in the heart of the mother. "I saw her sitting looking at the mansion of Whitecraigs. I fear she can lend you small aid; yet, if her powers of mind and body were equal to the beauty that has too clearly faded from her cheeks, methinks you would have had small need to have taken the charity of either friends or strangers." "Ay, poor Alice! poor Alice!" rejoined the mother, turning suddenly, and applying her hand to something which required not her care at that time--"Ay, poor Alice!" she added. "Is it a bargain, then," said he, wishing to retreat from a subject that so evidently pained her, "that I may remain here for a time, on your own terms of remuneration?" "It may be as you say," replied she, again taking her seat; "but only on a condition." "What is it?" inquired he. "That you never mention the name of Hector Hayston, or of Whitecraigs, while Alice is by. She harms no one; and I would not see her harmed." "I perceive," said he, muttering to himself, "that I am not the only one in the world who carries in his bosom a secret. But," he continued, in a louder tone, "your condition, dame, shall be fulfilled; and now I may hold myself to be your lodger." And he proceeded to take from the stuffed pockets of his coat some night-clothes of a homely character, and handed them to the dame. "And now," he said, "you may be, now or after, wondering who he may be who has thus come, like a weary bird from the waste that seeks refuge among the sere leaves, to live in the habitation of sorrow. But you must question me not; and farther than my name, which is Wallace, you may know nothing of me till after the 29th day of September--ay, ay," he continued, as if calculating, "the 29th day of September." The dame started as she heard the mention of the day, looked steadfastly at him, and was silent. "Yes," he continued, "that day past, and I will once more draw my breath freely in the land of my fathers; and my foot, which has only bowed the head of the heather-bell in the valley, may yet collect energy enough from my unstrung nerves to press fearlessly the sod of the mountain. How long is it since your husband died?" "Seven years," replied she.