it to his daughter!" she cried out. "But those that do not love and cherish him I will not know."
"I will take the freedom of a word yet," said I, beginning to tremble. "Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at Prestongrange's. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it's a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending."
"It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking," said she; "and he is much made up to you for your sorrow."
"Miss Drummond," cried I, "I am alone in this world. . . ."
"And I am not wondering at that," said she.
"O, let me speak!" said I. "I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?"
"I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour," said she. "I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk."
"O, let me have one to believe in me!" I pleaded, "I cannae bear it else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through with my dreadful fate? If there's to be none to believe in me I cannot do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it."
