“O Christine, forgive me!”

She smiled faintly.

“You—­have—­not—­used—­yonder—­paper,—­James?”

“Oh, no, no.”

“It—­would—­kill—­me.  You—­would—­not—­kill—­me?”

“I would die to make you strong again.”

“Don’t—­hurt—­Donald.  Forgive—­for—­Christ’s—­sake,—­James!”

Poor James!  It was hard for him to see that still Donald was her first thought, and, looking on the wreck of Christine’s youth and beauty, it was still harder not to hate him worse than ever.

Nor did the temptation to do so grow less with time.  He had to listen every evening to David’s praises of his nephew:  how “he had been entered wi’ Advocate Scott, and was going to be a grand lawyer,” or how he had been to some great man’s house and won all hearts with his handsome face and witty tongue.  Or, perhaps, he would be shown some rich token of his love that had come for Christine; or David would say, “There’s the ‘Edinbro’ News,’ James; it cam fra Donald this morn; tak it hame wi’ you.  You’re welcome.”  And James feared not to take it, feared to show the slightest dislike to Donald, lest David’s anger at it should provoke him to say what was in his heart, and Christine only be the sufferer.

One cold night in early winter, James, as was his wont now, went to spend the evening in talking with David and in watching Christine.  That was really all it was; for, though she had resumed her house duties, she took little part in conversation.  She had always been inclined to silence, but now a faint smile and a “Yes” or “No” were her usual response, even to her father’s remarks.  This night he found David out, and he hesitated whether to trouble Christine or not.  He stood for a moment in the open door and looked at her.  She was sitting by the table with a little Testament open in her hand; but she was rather musing on what she had been reading than continuing her occupation.

“Christine!”

“James!”

“May I come in?”

“Yes, surely.”

“I hear your father has gone to a town-meeting.”

“Yes.”

“And he is to be made a bailie.”

“Yes.”

“I am very glad.  It will greatly please him, and there is no citizen more worthy of the honor.”

“I think so also.”

“Shall I disturb you if I wait to see him?”

“No, James; sit down.”

Then Christine laid aside her book and took her sewing, and James sat thinking how he could best introduce the subject ever near his heart.  He felt that there was much to say in his own behalf, if he only knew how to begin.  Christine opened the subject for him.  She laid down her work and went and stood before the fire at his side.  The faintest shadow of color was in her face, and her eyes were unspeakably sad and anxious.  He could not bear their eager, searching gaze, and dropped his own.

“James, have you destroyed yonder paper?”