“I wull, I wull,” burst from Malcolm in sobs; and he wailed aloud.

The day wore on, and the afternoon came.  Still Lady Florimel had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered.

As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening.  Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his master’s face grew and the strain of his listening diminished.  At length Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall-door.  A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room.

“Papa! papa!” she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his.

The marquis could not return her embrace:  he could only receive her into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes.

“Flory!” he murmured, “I’m going away.  I’m going—­I’ve got—­to make an—­apology.  Malcolm, be good—­”

The sentence remained unfinished.  The light paled from his countenance:  he had to carry it with him.  He was dead.

Lady Florimel gave a loud cry.  Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance.  “My lady’s in a dead faint,” she whispered, and left the room to get help.

Malcolm lifted Lady Florimel in his great arms and bore her tenderly to her own apartment.  There he left her to the care of her women and returned to the chamber of death.

Meantime, Mr. Graham and Mr. Soutar had come.  When Malcolm re-entered the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said, “Malcolm, there can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication I am commissioned to make to you:  I have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that you are now marquis of Lossie; and God forbid you should be less worthy as marquis than you have been as fisherman!”

Malcolm stood stupefied.  For a while he seemed to himself to be turning over in his mind something he had heard read from a book, with a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it.  The thought of his father cleared his brain.  He ran to the dead body, kissed its lips as he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees wept, he knew not for what.  Presently, however, he recovered himself, rose, and, rejoining the two men, said, “Gentlemen, hoo mony kens this turn o’ things?”

“None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Catanach and ourselves—­so far as I know,” answered Mr. Soutar.

“And Miss Horn,” added Mr. Graham, “She first brought out the truth of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your father.”

“I s’ tell her mysel’,” returned Malcolm.  “But, gentlemen, I beg o’ ye, till I ken what I’m aboot an’ gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo’ to leevin’ cratur’ aboot this.  There’s time eneuch for the warl’ to ken ’t.”

“Your lordship commands me,” said Mr. Soutar.

“Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave,” said Mr. Graham.