“I ran quickly,” she said.  “Even if a messenger was sent he might be behind me.”

Was it her words or the tramp of a horse that made us turn our heads at that moment?  I know not.  But far back in a twist of the road we saw a horseman approaching at such a reckless pace that I thought he was on a runaway.  We stopped instinctively, and waited for him, and twice he disappeared in hollows of the road, and then was suddenly tearing down upon us.  I recognised in him young Mr. McKenzie, a relative of Rintoul, and I stretched out my arms to compel him to draw up.  He misunderstood my motive, and was raising his whip threateningly, when he saw the Egyptian, It is not too much to say that he swayed in the saddle.  The horse galloped on, though he had lost hold of the reins.  He looked behind until he rounded a corner, and I never saw such amazement mixed with incredulity on a human face.  For some minutes I expected to see him coming back, but when he did not I said wonderingly to the Egyptian—­

“He knew you.”

“Did he?” she answered indifferently, and I think we spoke no more until we were in Windyghoul.  Soon we were barely conscious of each other’s presence.  Never since have I walked between the school-house and Thrums in so short a time, nor seen so little on the way.

In the Egyptian’s eyes, I suppose, was a picture of Gavin lying dead; but if her grief had killed her thinking faculties, mine, that was only less keen because I had been struck down once before, had set all the wheels of my brain in action.  For it seemed to me that the hour had come when I must disclose myself to Margaret.

I had realised always that if such a necessity did arise it could only be caused by Gavin’s premature death, or by his proving a bad son to her.  Some may wonder that I could have looked calmly thus far into the possible, but I reply that the night of Adam Dishart’s home-coming had made of me a man whom the future could not surprise again.  Though I saw Gavin and his mother happy in our Auld Licht manse, that did not prevent my considering the contingencies which might leave her without a son.  In the school-house I had brooded over them as one may think over moves on a draught-board.  It may have been idle, but it was done that I might know how to act best for Margaret if any thing untoward occurred.  The time for such action had come.  Gavin’s death had struck me hard, but it did not crush me.  I was not unprepared.  I was going to Margaret now.

What did I see as I walked quickly along the glen road, with Babbie silent by my side, and I doubt not pods of the broom cracking all around us?  I saw myself entering the Auld Licht manse, where Margaret sat weeping over the body of Gavin, and there was none to break my coming to her, for none but she and I knew what had been.

I saw my Margaret again, so fragile now, so thin the wrists, her hair turned grey.  No nearer could I go, but stopped at the door, grieving for her, and at last saying her name aloud.