“What is the matter then?” he cried.  “There’s something wrong, an’ you’ll no’ tell me.  Very well, tell me what you mean to do.  I hae asked you a fair question.  Are you going to marry me?  I want yes or no to that,” and there was a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.

“Come on,” he urged, after a short silence, broken only by Mysie’s sobs, “gie me an answer.  Or, if you wad raither wait a wee while, till this trouble has blawn by that is bothering you, I’m quite agreeable to wait.”

“It’ll never blaw by, Rob,” she sobbed.  “Oh, dinna ask me ony mair.  I canna be your wife noo, an’ I jist want to be left alane!”

The pain and despair in her voice alarmed him.  It was so keen and poignant, and went to his heart like a knife.

“Oh!” he gasped in surprise, as he strove to call his pride to his assistance.  It was so unlike what he had anticipated that it amazed him to have such a disappointing reply.  Then, recovering somewhat:—­“Very well!” with great deliberation, while his voice sounded unnaturally strained.  Then the effort failing, and his pride breaking down:  “Oh, Mysie, Mysie,” he burst out in poignant agony again relapsing into the pleading wooing tones that were so difficult to withstand, “How I hae loved you!  I thocht you cared for me.  I hae built mysel’ up in you, an’ I’ll never, never be able to forget you!  Oh, think what it is!  You hae been life itsel’ to me, Mysie, an’ I canna think that you dinna care!  Oh, Mysie!”

He turned away, his heart sore and his soul wounded, and strode from the copse out on to the moor, a thousand thoughts driving him on, a thousand regrets pursuing, and a load of pain in his heart that was bearing his spirit down.

“Oh, dear God!” moaned Mysie, kneeling down, her legs unable to support her longer, “Oh, dear God, my heart’ll break!” and a wild burst of sobbing shook her frame, and her grief overpowering flowed through the tears—­a picture of utter despair and terrible hopelessness.

Robert tore away from the dell, his whole calculation of things upset.  To think that Mysie could not love him had never entered his head.  What was wrong with her?  What was the nature of her terrible grief?

He kicked savagely at a thistle which grew upon the edge of the pathway, his pride wounded, but now in possession of the citadel of his heart; and on he strode, still driven by the terrible passion raging within him; resolving already, as many have done under like circumstances, that his life was finished.  Hope had gone, dreams were unreal and vanishing as the mist that crawled along the bog-pools at night.

At the crest of the little hill, just where it sloped down to the village, he stood and looked back.

Good God!  Was he seeing aright!  The figure of a man, who in the gray gloaming looked well-dressed, was approaching Mysie, and she was slowly moving to meet him.  A few steps more, and the man had the girl, he thought, in his arms, and was kissing her where they stood.