“Yo' loved a lass yo'sel' aince, Mr. M'Adam,” she said. “Hoo would yo' ha' felt had she gone away and left yo'? Yo'd ha' bin mad; yo' know yo' would. And, Mr. M'Adam, I love the lad yer wife loved.” She was kneeling at his feet now with both hands on his knees, looking up at him. Her sad face and quivering lips pleaded for her more eloquently than any words.
The little man was visibly touched.
“Ay, ay, lass, that's enough,” he said, trying to avoid those big beseeching eyes which would not be avoided.
“Will ye no tell me?” she pleaded.
“I canna tell ye, lass, for why, I dinna ken,” he answered querulously. In truth, he was moved to the heart by her misery.
The girl's last hopes were dashed. She had played her last card and failed. She had clung with the fervor of despair to this last resource, and now it was torn from her. She had hoped, and now there was no hope. In the anguish of her disappointment she remembered that this was the man who, by his persistent cruelty, had driven her love into exile.
She rose to her feet and stood back.
“Nor ken, nor care!” she cried bitterly.
At the words all the softness fled from the little man's face.
“Ye do me a wrang, lass; ye do indeed,” he said, looking up at her with an assumed ingenuousness which, had she known him better, would have warned her to beware. “Gin I kent where the lad was I'd be the vairy first to let you, and the p'lice, ken it too; eh, Wullie! he! he!” He chuckled at his wit and rubbed his knees, regardless of the contempt blazing in the girl's face.