“A ‘comfortable place to sleep in,’ as some one once said to me in a Melbourne church-yard.  But ’east or west, home is best.—­I think, Bob, I shall leave it in my will that you are to bury me at St. Andrews.’”

“Nonsense, Uncle Robert!  You are not to talk of dying.  And you are to come with us up to the top of the tower.  Miss Williams, will you come too?”

“No, I think she had better not,” said Uncle Robert, decisively.  “She will stay here, and I will keep her company.”

So the young people all vanished up the tower, and the two elders walked silently side by side the quiet graves—­by the hearts which had ceased beating, the hands which, however close they lay, would never clasp one another any more.

“Yes, St. Andrews is a pleasant place,” said Robert Roy at last.  “I spoke in jest, but I meant in earnest; I have no wish to leave it again.  And you,” he added, seeing that she answered nothing—­“what plans have you?  Shall you stay on at the cottage till these young people are married?”

“Most likely.  We are all fond of the little house.”

“No wonder.  They say a wandering life after a certain number of years unsettles a man forever; he rests nowhere, but goes on wandering to the end.  But I feel just the contrary.  I think I shall stay permanently at St. Andrews.  You will let me come about your cottage, ‘like a tame cat,’ as that foolish fellow owned he had called me—­will you not?”

“Certainly.”

But at the same time she felt there was a strain beyond which she could not bear.  To be so near, yet so far; so much to him, and yet so little.  She was conscious of a wild desire to run away somewhere—­run away and escape it all; of a longing to be dead and buried, deep in the sea, up away among the stars.

“Will those young people be very long, do you think?”

At the sound of her voice he turned to look at her, and saw that she was deadly pale, and shivering from head to foot.

“This will never do.  You must ‘come under my plaidie,’ as the children say, and I will take you home at once.  Boys!” he called out to the figures now appearing like jackdaws at the top of the tower, “we are going straight home.  Follow us as soon as you like.  Yes, it must be so,” he answered to the slight resistance she made.  “They must all take care of themselves.  I mean to take care of you.”

Which he did, wrapping her well in the half of his plaid, drawing her hand under his arm and holding it there—­holding it close and warm at his heart all the way along the Scores and across the Links, scarcely speaking a single word until they reached the garden gate.  Even there he held it still.

“I see your girls coming, so I shall leave you.  You are warm now, are you not?”

“Quite warm.”

“Good-night, then.  Stay.  Tell me”—­he spoke rapidly, and with much agitation—­“tell me just one thing, and I will never trouble you again.  Why did you not answer a letter I wrote to you seventeen years ago?”