The supper was spread upon the ground, and the mother of Judith again added, "Come, Gemmel, lad, it is o' nae use to be in a cankered humour for ever. Draw forward and help yersel'--ye see there is nae want." "So I see!" replied he, sarcastically; "did ye expect company? I doubt yer fare would hardly be to _his_ palate!" "What do you mean, Gemmel?" cried Lussha; "think ye that we are to put up wi' yer fits?--or wherefore, if ye hae naething to say, come ye glunching here, wi' a brow as dark and threatening as a nicht in December?" Gemmel rose angrily, and replied, "I hae something to say, Lussha, and that something is to Judith, but not in your presence. Judith, will ye speak wi' me?" added he, addressing her. Judith, who had sat in a corner of the ruin, with her hands upon her bosom, covering the watch which young Walter had given her, and forgetting that the golden chain by which it was suspended from her neck was visible, cast a timid glance towards her father, as if imploring his protection. "I am no sure, Gemmel," said Lussha, "whether I can trust my daughter in your company or no. If I do, will ye gie me yer thumb that ye winna harm her, nor raise your hand against her." "Harm her!" exclaimed Gemmel, disdainfully: "I scorn it!--there's my thumb." "Ye may gang, Judith," said her father. Judith, with fear and guilt graven on her lovely features, rose and accompanied Gemmel. He walked in silence by her side until they came to an old and broad-branched tree, which stood about forty yards from the ruin. A waning summer moon had risen since he arrived, and mingled its light with the grey gloam of the night, revealing the ornaments which Judith wore. "Judith," said Gemmel, breaking the silence, and raising her hand from her bosom, with which she concealed the watch, "where got ye thae braw ornaments? Has yer faither found a heart to lay his fingers on the treasures in the silver jug?" She trembled, and remained silent. "Poor thing! poor thing!--lost Judith!" exclaimed Gemmel. "I see how it is. For the sake o' thae vile gewgaws, ye hae deserted me--ye hae sacrificed peace o' mind, and bidden fareweel to happiness! O Judith, woman!--wha is the flatterer noo? Do you mind syne we sat by the hedge-side thegither, when the corn-craik counted the moments round about us, and tried to mind us hoo they flew--when the sun had sunk down in the west, and the bonny hawthorn showered its fragrance owre us, as though we sat in the garden where our first parents were happy? Do you mind o' thae days, Judith?--and hoo, when my heaving bosom beat upon yours, as we sat locked in ilka other's arms, I asked, 'Will ye be mine?' and ye let yer head fa' on my shouther, and said, '_I will!_'--Judith! do ye mind o' thae things, and where are they noo?" "Gemmel Græme," replied she, and she wept as she spoke, "let me gang--I canna bide wi' ye--and ye hae nae richt to put yer questions to me."