“What will he say?” she murmured aloud as she went down, with Jock frisking and barking before her.  “What will he think of me when he gets my letter?  He will believe me fickle; he will believe that I have another lover.  That is certain.  Well, I must allow him to believe it.  We have parted, and we must now, alas! remain apart for ever.  Probably he will seek from my father the truth concerning my disappearance from Glencardine.  Dad will tell him, no doubt.  And then—­then, what will he believe?  He—­he will know that I am unworthy to be his wife.  Yet—­yet is it not cruel that I dare not speak the truth and clear myself of this foul charge of betraying my own dear father?  Was ever a girl placed in such a position as myself, I wonder.  Has any girl ever loved a man better than I love Walter?” Her white lips were set hard, and her fine eyes became again bedimmed by tears.

It commenced to rain, that fine drizzle so often experienced north of the Tweed.  But she heeded not.  She was used to it.  To get wet through was, to her, quite a frequent occurrence when out fishing.  Though there was no path, she knew her way; and, walking through the wet heather, she came after half-an-hour out upon a muddy byroad which led her into the town of Crieff, whence her return was easy; though it was already dusk, and the dressing-bell had gone, before she re-entered the house by the servants’ door and slipped unobserved up to her own room.

Elise found her seated in her blue gown before the welcome fire-log, her chin upon her breast.  Her excuse was that she felt unwell; therefore one of the maids brought her some dinner on a tray.

Upon the mantelshelf were many photographs, some of them snap-shots of her schoolfellows and souvenirs of holidays, the odds and ends of portraits and scenes which every girl unconsciously collects.

Among them, in a plain silver frame, was the picture of Walter Murie taken in New York only a few weeks before.  Upon the frame was engraved, “Gabrielle, from Walter.”  She took it in her hand, and stood for a long time motionless.  Never again, alas! would she look upon that face so dear to her.  Her young heart was already broken, because she was held fettered and powerless.

At last she put down the portrait, and, sinking into her chair, sat crying bitterly.  Now that she was outcast by her father, to whom she had been always such a close, devoted friend, her life was an absolute blank.  At one blow she had lost both lover and father.  Already Elise had told her that she had received instructions to pack her trunks.  The thin-nosed Frenchwoman was apparently much puzzled at the order which Lady Heyburn had given her, and had asked the girl whom she intended to visit.  The maid had asked what dresses she would require; but Gabrielle replied that she might pack what she liked for a long visit.  The girl could hear Elise moving about, shaking out skirts, in the adjoining room, and making preparations for her departure on the morrow.