"Maister John, Maister John," cried the old man, all but weeping. "Is't yoursel' at last? We've had sair, sair need o' ye. Eh, but she'll be blithe to see ye."
"Is your mistress well?" I cried with a great anxiety.
"Weel eneuch, the puir lass, but sair troubled in mind. But that'll a' be bye and dune wi', noo that ye're come back."
"Where is she? Quick, tell me," I asked in my impatience.
"In the oak room i' the lang passage," he said, as quick as he could muster breath.
I knew the place, and without more words I set off across the hall, running and labouring hard to keep my heart from bursting. Now at last I should see the dear lass whom I had left. There was the door, a little ajar, and the light of a sunbeam slanting athwart it.
I knocked feebly, for my excitement was great.
"Come," said that voice which I loved best in all the world.
I entered, and there, at the far end of the room, in the old chair in which her father had always sat, wearing the dark dress of velvet which became her best, and with a great book in her lap, was Marjory.
She sprang up at my entrance, and with a low cry of joy ran to meet me. I took a step and had her in my arms. My heart was beating in a mighty tumult of joy, and when once my love's head lay on my shoulder, I cared not a fig for all the ills in the world. I cannot tell of that meeting; even now my heart grows warm at the thought; but if such moments be given to many men, there is little to complain of in life.