"Have you been home to see your mother?" she asked.
Walter shook his head.
"I have had no thought but how to get to Scotland the quickest way. I have felt as if something were dragging me. What is it? All this year I have been struggling with something. I have sometimes thought if I had come back here you could have helped me."
"I would—I would! if I could," she cried.
"It is not a thing that can be endured," said Walter; "it must come to an end. I don't know how or by what means; but one thing is certain, I will not go on bearing it. I will rather make an end of myself."
She put a hand quickly upon his arm.
"Oh do not say that; there is much, much that must be done before you can despair: and that is the thought of despair. Some have done it, but you must not. No—not you—not you."
"What must I do then?"
She caressed his arm with her thin, little, half-transparent hand, and looked at him wistfully with her small face, half child, half old woman, suffused and tremulous.
"Oh!" she said, "my bonnie lad! you must be good—you must be good first of all."