g kindly," she replied; and then, with a
little outburst, "but why will you be sending money to that man? It must
not be."

"I never sent it for him," said I, "but for you, as you know well."

"And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us," said she.
"David, it is not right."

"It is not, it is all wrong," said I; "and I pray God He will help this
dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona, this
is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the word,
but yon man is no fit father to take care of you."

"Do not be speaking of him, even!" was her cry.

"And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am
thinking--O, be sure of that!" says I. "I think of the one thing. I have
been alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my
studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among
soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And
it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do you
see this napkin at my throat? You cut a corner from it once and then
cast it from you. They're _your_ colours now; I wear them in my heart.
My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!"

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

"Try to put up with me," I was saying, "try and bear with me a little."

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a fear
of death.

"Catriona," I cried, gazing on her hard, "is it a mistake again? Am I
quite lost?"

She raised her face to me, breathless.

"Do you want me, Davie, truly?" said she, and I scarce could hear her
say it.

"I do that," said I. "O, sure you know it--I do that."

"I have nothing left to give or to keep back," said she. "I was all
yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!" she said.

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous,
we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down
before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that
storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was
wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew
not where I was, I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped,
and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words out
of a whirl.

"Davie," she was saying, "O, Davie, is this what you think of me? Is it
so that yo