“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I; “and I pray God he will help this dull fellow (if it be at all possible), to make it better.  Catriona, this is no kind of life for you to lead, and I ask your pardon for the word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.”

“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry.

“And I need speak of him no more, it is not of him that I am thinking, O, be sure of that!” says I.  “I think of the one thing.  I have been alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my studies, still I was thinking of that.  Next Alan came, and I went among soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought.  And it was the same before, when I had her there beside me.  Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat?  You cut a corner from it once and then cast it from you.  They’re your colours now; I wear them in my heart.  My dear, I cannot want you.  O, try to put up with me!”

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with a little.”

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a fear of death.

“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again?  Am I quite lost?”

She raised her face to me, breathless.

“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her say it.

“I do that,” said I.  “O, sure you know it—­I do that.”

“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she.  “I was all yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she said.

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous, we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me.  All thought was wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure.  I knew not where I was, I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped, and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words out of a whirl.

“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me?  Is it so that you were caring for poor me?  O, Davie, Davie!”

With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect gladness.

It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure like a child, and called her foolish and kind names.  I have never seen the place look so pretty as these bents by Dunkirk; and the windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of music.

I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father, which brought us to reality.