“And do you think it is sleeplessness, Janet,” said she, “that is the matter with our Keith?  Ah, but you know better than that, Janet.”

Janet Macleod’s face grew suddenly red; but she said, hastily,—­

“Why, auntie, have I not heard him walking up and down all the night, whether it was in his own room or in the library?  And then he is out before any one is up:  oh yes, I know that when you cannot sleep the face grows white and the eyes grow tired.  And he has not been himself at all—­going away like that from every one, and having nothing to say, and going away by himself over the moors.  And it was the night before last he came back from Kinloch, and he was wet through, and he only lay down on the bed, as Hamish told me, and would have slept there all the night, but for Hamish.  And do you not think that was to get sleep at last that he had been walking so far, and coming through the shallows of Loch Scridain, too?  Ah, but you will see the difference, auntie, when he comes back on board the Umpire, and we will go down to the shore, and we will be glad to see him that day.”

“Oh yes, Janet,” the old lady said, and the tears were running down her face, “but you know—­you know.  And if he had married you, Janet, and stayed at home at Dare, there would have been none of all this trouble.  And now—­what is there now?  It is the young English lady that has broken his heart; and he is no longer a son to me, and he is no longer your cousin, Janet; but a broken-hearted man, that does not care for anything.  And you are very kind, Janet; and you would not say any harm of any one.  But I am his mother—­I—­I—­well, if the woman was to come here this day, do you think I would not speak?  It was a bad day for us all that he went away—­instead of marrying you, Janet.”

“But you know that could never have been, auntie,” said the gentle-eyed cousin, though there was some conscious flush of pride in her cheeks.  “I could never have married Keith.”

“But why, Janet?”

“You have no right to ask me, auntie.  But he and I—­we did not care for each other—­I mean, we never could have been married.  I hope you will not speak about that any more, auntie.”

“And some day they will take me, too, away from Dare,” said the old dame, and the spinning-wheel was left unheeded; “and I cannot go into the grave with my five brave lads—­for where are they all now, Janet?—­in Arizona one, in Africa one, and two in the Crimea, and my brave Hector at Koniggratz.  But that is not much; I shall be meeting them all together:  and do you not think I shall be glad to see them all together again just as it was in the old days; and they will come to meet me; and they will be glad enough to have the mother with them once again.  But, Janet, Janet, how can I go to them?  What will I say to them when they ask about Keith—­about Keith, my Benjamin, my youngest, my handsome lad?”

The old woman was sobbing bitterly; and Janet went to her and put her arms round her, and said,—­