It was a part of poor Ellen's burden that she was acutely conscious of the duty which her parents and all her aunts assured her she owed these sisters. But, on the other hand, to share the remainder of her existence with Andrew Walkingshaw—There rose vividly a picture of that most respectable of partners, and the emotion attendant on this vision drew from her a sigh that ought to have convinced the most skeptical she was very hard hit indeed.
It was at this moment that she spied a lad approaching from the house.
"Well, Jimmy?" she inquired.
With an appearance of some caution, he handed her a note.
"It was to be gi'en to yoursel' privately, miss," he said mysteriously, and turned to go.
"Is there no answer?" she asked.
"He said I wasna to bide for an answer."
He hurried off as though his directions had been peremptory, and Ellen opened the letter. It was written upon the notepaper of a local inn, and if she was surprised to discover the writer, she was still more astonished by the contents.
"My Dear Ellen," it ran, "I should take it as a very great favor indeed if you would come immediately on receiving this and meet me at the farther end of the wood below your garden. Follow the path, and you will find me waiting for you. The matter is of such importance that I make no apologies for suggesting this romantic proceeding!—With love, yours affectionately,
"J. Heriot Walkingshaw.