"That is better than charity," rejoined the dame—"ay, even the charity of the stranger."
"And why of the stranger, dame?" added he. "I have hitherto thought that the charity of friends was that which might be most easily borne. And who may be your benefactor?"
"Hector Hayston of Whitecraigs," replied she, hanging her head, and drawing a deep breath.
The stranger detected the same symptoms of pain in the mother as those he had observed in the daughter.
"Then forgets he not his cottars in his absence," he added. "But why has he left a retreat fairer than any I have yet seen throughout a long pilgrimage over many lands?"
"We will not speak of that," she replied, rising slowly, and going to the window, where she stood for a time in silence.
"You have a daughter, dame," resumed the man, as he watched the indications of movement in the heart of the mother. "I saw her sitting looking at the mansion of Whitecraigs. I fear she can lend you small aid; yet, if her powers of mind and body were equal to the beauty that has too clearly faded from her cheeks, methinks you
would have had small need to have taken the charity of either friends or strangers."
"Ay, poor Alice! poor Alice!" rejoined the mother, turning suddenly, and applying her hand to something which required not her care at that time—"Ay, poor Alice!" she added.
"Is it a bargain, then," said he, wishing to retreat from a subject that so evidently pained her, "that I may remain here for a time, on your own terms of remuneration?"