"How can I find words to thank you, Mr. Fenton?" said the tremulous voice of Lilian Napier, whose small but beautiful face appeared without the massive grating, peeping through a plaid of dark green tartan, a mode of disguise then very common in Scotland, and which continued to be so in the earlier part of the last century. Like a hooded mantilla, it floated over her graceful shoulders, and a silver brooch confined it beneath her dimpled chin.
"Lilian Napier here!" exclaimed Fenton with rapture; "ah, fool that I was to repine, while my miseries were remembered by thee!"
"Ah, sir, the Lady Bruntisfield has lamented them bitterly. Never can we repay you for the unmerited severity and humiliations to which you have been subjected in our cause. Oh, can I forget that but for you, Mr. Fenton, we might have become the occupants of that frightful place, the air of which chills me even here!"
"Thee—O no, Lilian Napier, they could not have the heart to immure thee here!"
"The lack of heart rather, Walter."
"The idea is too horrible—but now," he continued, in a voice of delight, "you are speaking like my old companion and playfellow. 'Tis long—O, very, very long, Lilian, since last we conversed together alone. Do you remember when we gathered flowers, and rushes, and pebbles by the banks of the Loch, and berries at the Heronshaw, and gambolled in the parks in the summer sunshine?"
"How could I forget them?"
"Never have I been so happy since. O, those were days of innocence and joy!"
There was a pause, and both sighed deeply.
"Poor Walter, how sincerely I pity thee!"