“Mysie!” he exclaimed, jumping forward, “Guid God! where have you come from?  Where have you been?” and his hands were holding hers, and his eyes greedily scanning her face as if he would look into her very soul, and read the story of the last few months.

“Oh, Rob,” she said, with a gasp, “I didna think I wad meet you here.”

“Sit down,” he said hurriedly, as he recovered himself.  “Sit down and rest.  You’re ill.  What’s the matter?  Where have you been?  Tell me all about it!” There were tears in Mysie’s eyes too, as she weakly sat down, unable to do anything else.  She had recognized him as he approached, and had started up to get away; but he had also recognized her, and she was too late.

“Hoo is my mither an’ my faither?” she enquired, after a short silence, as she tried to recover herself.  “Hoo are they a’ at hame?” the greedy heart hunger for loved ones drove her to the impatient enquiry.  “Did they miss me muckle, Rob?  Were they awfu’ vexed at what I did?  Tell me a’ aboot it then, I want to ken.”

“But you must tell me first aboot yoursel’, Mysie,” he replied evasively, searching in his mind the best way to adopt in telling her of the things he knew would wound her.  “Come, Mysie,” he urged, “you surely can trust me.  I have always been your friend, and I only wish now to hear all about you.  Why did you go away?”

She saw him look at her, and a quick flush overspread her thin, pale cheeks as she detected his look.  He had no need to ask further.

“Oh, Rob, I wish—­I wish I had died a year syne!” and a wild burst of sobbing came over her as she spoke.

“Dinna greet, Mysie,” he said, as his hand reached out and began to stroke her hair tenderly.  Then after a short pause, “Wha was he, Mysie?  Tell me, an’ I’ll tear the black heart oot o’ him!”

But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; for the homely doric on Robert’s tongue touched her and it came readier to him in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon her head gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a child is quieted by the loving hand of a mother.

“I’ll tell you a’ aboot it, Rob,” she said at last after a short time.  “An’ I hope you’ll no’ tell onybody.  There’s naebody to blame but mysel’ for a’ that has happened, an’ I maun bear the punishment if there is punishment gaun,” and bit by bit, with many an effort to compose herself as she spoke, she told him the whole sad story from beginning to end.

“There was naebody to blame, Rob—­naebody but mysel’!  I should hae kent better.  But I never thocht it wad hae turned oot as it has done.  I hae been gey ill, an’ I maun say that Peter has been awful guid to me.  He’s done his best to get me better, so that he can marry me afore it happens.  I lay for nearly six months, an’ I wasna carin’ whether I died or no’!  I was fair heartbroken, an’ didna mind what happened.