"Mary," I began, "I have something to say to you." She turned and looked at me quickly, but did not speak.
I drew an anxious breath and continued: "I am going away."
Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke rapidly: "You're gaun away. Whatever for?"
"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, your father, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me in sore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger to you all, and for your sakes I must go."
Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast moved tremulously.
"Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o' danger: that needna' drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?"
Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there's some English lassie waiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me she whispered, "It maun e'en be as ye will."
"Mary," I said, "you wrong me. If you could read my heart you would know what I suffer. I hate to go. I am leaving friendship and love behind me----"
I paused, but she did not speak. "Before God," I said, "I shall never forget Daldowie, and--you."
Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them gently in mine.