The week before he had caught and kissed Mysie Maitland, who was now serving at Rundell House, merely because he was taken with her pretty face.  From that Peter already believed himself in love with her, because she had not resented his action.  He had even walked over with her from the village, when she had been home visiting her parents one night, and had felt more and more the witchery of her pretty face and the lure of her fine little figure.

Up to this time Mysie had always believed herself in love with Robert—­Robert who was always so strange from the rest of young men.  He had always been her hero, her protector; but there was something about him for which she could not account and which she could not have defined.  Such was her admiration that she believed it was in his power to do anything he cared to attempt; it was just possible that it was this strange sense of unknown power which fascinated her.  They had never been lovers in the accepted sense of the word.  They had never “walked out” as young people in their social station usually do, but yet had always felt that they were meant for one another.

Only once had Robert kissed her, and that moment ever lived with her a glowing memory.  She had been home and was returning through a moorland pass, when she came across him lying upon the rough heather, his thoughts doubtless full of her, for he had seen her in the village, and knew she must return that way.

“Oh, Rob!” she cried, her face flushing with excitement as she saw him.  “Ye nearly frichted me oot o’ my wits the noo.”

“Did I, Mysie?” he answered, springing to his feet.  “I didna mean to dae that.  Ye’ll be getting back, I suppose.”

“Ay,” she returned simply, and a silence fell upon them, in which both seemed to lose the power of speaking.

Robert looked at her as she stood there, her full, curved breasts rising and falling with the excitement of the unexpected meeting, the long lashes of her eyes sweeping her flushed cheeks, as she stood with downcast eyes before him.  The last rays of the setting sun falling upon her brown hair touched it with a rare strange beauty.  Her red lips like dew-drenched roses—­luscious, pure, alluring, were parted a little in a half smile.  But it was the fascinating movement of the breast, full, round and sensuous, that stirred and made an overpowering appeal to every pulse within him.  It seemed so soft, so tender, so wonderfully alluring.  At the moment he could not understand himself or her.  There was a strange, surging impetus raging through him that he felt absolutely powerless to subdue, and he swayed a little as he stood.

“Oh, Mysie!” he cried, leaping forward and clasping her in his strong, young arms, and crushing her against him, holding her there, gasping, powerless but happy.