When he heard James’ step he went to meet him with open hand; but James said,

“Not just yet, Mr. McFarlane; hear what I have to say.  Then if you offer your hand I will take it.”

“Christine is dead?”

“Dead, dead.”

They sat down opposite each other, and James did not spare himself.  From his discovery of the note in old Starkie’s possession until the death of Christine, he confessed everything.  Donald sat with downcast eyes, quite silent.  Once or twice his fierce Highland blood surged into his face, and his hand stole mechanically to the place where his dirk had once been, but the motion was as transitory as a thought.  When James had finished he sat with compressed lips for a few moments, quite unable to control his speech; but at length he slowly said,

“I wish I had known all this before; it would have saved much sin and suffering.  You said that my indifference at first angered you.  I must correct this.  I was not indifferent.  No one can tell what suffering that one cowardly act cost me.  But before the bill fell due I went frankly to Uncle David and confessed all my sin.  What passed between us you may guess; but he forgave me freely and fully, as I trust God did also.  Hence there was no cause for its memory to darken life.”

“I always thought Christine had told her father,” muttered James.

“Nay, but I told him myself.  He said he would trace the note, and I have no doubt he knew it was in your keeping from the first.”

Then James took it from his pocket-book.

“There it is, Mr. McFarlane.  Christine gave it back to me the hour she died.  I promised her to bring it to you and tell you all.”

“Christine’s soul was a white rose without a thorn.  I count it an honor to have known and loved her.  But the paper is yours, Mr. Blackie, unless I may pay for it.”

“O man, man! what money could pay for it?  I would not dare to sell it for the whole world!  Take it, I pray you.”

“I will not.  Do as you wish with it, James, I can trust you.”

Then James walked towards the table.  There were wax lights burning on it, and he held it in the flame and watched it slowly consume away to ashes.  The silence was so intense that they heard each other breathing, and the expression on James’ face was so rapt and noble that even Donald’s stately beauty was for the moment less attractive.  Then he walked towards Donald and said,

“Now give me your hand, McFarlane, and I’ll take it gladly.”

And that was a handclasp that meant to both men what no words could have expressed.

“Farewell, McFarlane; our ways in this world lie far apart; but when we come to die it will comfort both of us to remember this meeting.  God be with you!”

“And with you also, James.  Farewell.”

Then James went back to his store and his shadowed household life.  And people said he looked happier than ever he had done, and pitied him for his sick wife, and supposed he felt it a happy release to be rid of her.  So wrongly does the world, which knows nothing of our real life, judge us.