Humbled by his sense of unworthiness, and a little distressed that she could so quietly reveal the depth of her feeling towards him, he said: 

“Ah, Margaret!  I wish you would not praise one so little deserving it.”

“Praise?” she repeated, with an accent of wonder.  “I praise you!  No, Mr. Sutherland; that I am not guilty of.  Next to my father, you made me know and feel.  And as I walked here, I was thinking of the old times, and older times still; and all at once I saw the very picture out of the old Bible.”

She came close to him now.  He rose, trembling, but held out no hand, uttered no greeting.

“Margaret, dare I love you?” he faltered.

She looked at him with wide-open eyes.

“Me?” she said; and her eyes did not move from his.  A slight rose-flush bloomed out on her motionless face.

“Will you be my wife?” he said, trembling yet more.

She made no answer, but looked at him still, with parted lips, motionless.

“I am very poor, Margaret.  I could not marry now.”

It was a stupid speech, but he made it.

“I don’t care,” she answered, with a voice like thinking, “if you never marry me.”

He misunderstood her, and turned cold to the very heart.  He misunderstood her stillness.  Her heart lay so deep, that it took a long time for its feelings to reach and agitate the surface.  He said no more, but turned away with a sigh.

“Come home to my mother,” she said.

He obeyed mechanically, and walked in silence by her side.  They reached the cottage and entered.  Margaret said:  “Here he is, mother;” and disappeared.

Janet was seated —­ in her widow’s mutch, with the plain black ribbon down both sides, and round the back —­ in the arm-chair by the fire, pondering on the past, or gently dreaming of him that was gone.  She turned her head.  Sorrow had baptized her face with a new gentleness.  The tender expression which had been but occasional while her husband lived, was almost constant now.  She did not recognize Hugh.  He saw it, and it added weight to his despair.  He was left outside.

“Mother!” he said, involuntarily.

She started to her feet, cried:  “My bairn! my bairn!” threw her arms around him, and laid her head on his bosom.  Hugh sobbed as if his heart would break.  Janet wept, but her weeping was quiet as a summer rain.  He led her to her chair, knelt by her side, and hiding his face in her lap like a child, faltered out, interrupted by convulsive sobs: 

“Forgive me; forgive me.  I don’t deserve it, but forgive me.”

“Hoot awa! my bairn! my bonny man!  Dinna greet that gait.  The Lord preserve’s! what are ye greetin’ for?  Are na ye come hame to yer ain?  Didna Dawvid aye say —­ ’Gie the lad time, woman.  It’s unco chaip, for the Lord’s aye makin’t.  The best things is aye the maist plentifu’.  Gie the lad time, my bonny woman!’ —­