“I know—­I know,” said he.  “You would wait, and let those doubts close in upon you.  But here is a way to defeat them all.  Sweetheart, why do you not rise and give me your hand, and say ‘Yes?’ There would be no more doubts at all!”

“But surely, Keith, you must understand me when I say that rushing into a marriage in this mad way is a very dangerous thing.  You won’t look or listen to anything I suggest.  And really—­well, I think you should have some little consideration for me—­”

He regarded her for a moment with a look almost of wonder; and then he said, hastily,—­

“Perhaps you are right, Gerty; I should not have been so selfish.  But—­but you cannot tell how I have suffered—­all through the night-time, thinking and thinking—­and saying to myself that surely you could not be going away from me—­and in the morning, oh! the emptiness of all the sea and the sky, and you not there to be asked whether you would go out to Colonsay, or round to Loch Scridain, or go to see the rock-pigeons fly out of the caves.  It is not a long time since you were with us Gerty; but to me it seems longer than half a dozen of winters; for in the winter I said to myself, ’Ah, well, she is now working off the term of her imprisonment in the theatre; and when the days get long again, and the blue skies come again, she will use the first of her freedom to come and see the sea-birds about Dare.’  But this last time, Gerty—­well, I had strange doubts and misgivings; and sometimes I dreamed in the night-time that you were going away from me altogether—­on board a ship—­and I called to you and you would not even turn your head.  Oh, Gerty, I can see you now as you were then—­your head turned partly aside; and strangers round you; and the ship was going farther and farther away; and if I jumped into the sea, how could I overtake you?  But at least the waves would come over me, and I should have forgetfulness.”

“Yes, but you seem to think that my letters to you had no meaning whatever,” said she, almost petulantly.  “Surely I tried to explain clearly enough what our relative positions were?”

“You had got back to the influence of the theatre, Gerty—­I would not believe the things you wrote.  I said, ’You will go now and rescue her from herself.  She is only a girl; she is timid; she believes the foolish things that are said by the people around her.’  And then, do you know, sweetheart,” said he, with a sad smile on his face, “I thought if I were to go and get this paper, and suddenly show it to you—­well, it is not the old romantic way, but I thought you would frankly say ‘Yes!’ and have an end of all this pain.  Why, Gerty, you have been many a romantic heroine in the theatre; and you know they are not long in making up their minds.  And the heroines in our old songs, too:  do you know the song of Lizzie Lindsay, who ‘kilted her coats o’ green satin,’ and was off to the Highlands before any one could interfere with her?  That is the way to put an end to doubts.  Gerty, be a brave woman!  Be worthy of yourself!  Sweetheart, have you the courage now to ‘kilt your coats o’ green satin?’ And I know that in the Highlands you will have as proud a welcome as ever Lord Ronald Macdonald gave his bride from the South.”