"Ay, he wrote to her. Poor lad, he was near to crying as he did so."
"She never got that letter."
"My certie! I forgot it! Will you take it?"
"Will I take it? It is what I came for. Goodness! Gracious! Only to think of you keeping what may be his last message to her! O man, how could you? It is a cruel-like thing to do. It was that."
"I am very sorry for it. I quite forgot. I am not used to sending love letters. I never was in love in my life."
"I am not believing you. No, sir! I am sure some good woman's love sweetened the dour, ill-tempered Macrae blood in your heart. Think backward a matter of forty years and you will maybe remember her name."
He looked at Mrs. Caird in amazement, and then lifted her hand, "You are right," he answered slowly. "I remember her, a dear, sweet girl, fresh and pure as the mountain bluebells she had in her hand when we first met. She died one morning—whispering my name as she went. I loved her! Yes, I loved her!"
"Good man! I am glad you told me. I know you now, and I am not feared for you any longer. Give me Marion's letter."
"Cannot you stay half an hour longer?"
"Not now."