“My dear uncle,” he said, “I would rather you did not leave. Be as you were before. I will occupy but a small portion of the house. Stay with me.”
“Francis Robertson,” replied McLeod, “we go. I’ll be no man’s guest in a house that once was mine.”
“Be it so, sir. But I have something further to add.”
“Speak on.”
“From the first moment I saw her I fell in love with Miss Annie Lane. Will you give me her hand?”
“Have you spoken to herself?”
“I have not dared to.” McLeod at once rang the bell and summoned Annie, his niece.
“Annie, dear, this gentleman, your relation, says he loves you, and asks for your hand. Think you that you could love him?”
Annie drew herself haughtily up. She said but one word, a decisive and emphatic one: “No.”
“You have had your answer,” said McLeod. Francis bowed and went somewhat mournfully away.