.'

'Hae ye nae basket, Hector, wi' something to eat in 't--naething gaein'
to Rothieden 'at a body micht say by yer leave till?'

'Ow! it's you, is 't?' returned Hector, rousing himself. 'Na. Deil ane.
An' gin I had, I daurna gie ye 't.'

'I wad mak free to steal 't, though, an' tak my chance,' said Robert.
'But ye say ye hae nane?'

'Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin', man.'

'I'll stan' hunger as weel 's you ony day, Hector. It's no for mysel'.
There's Miss St. John.'

'Hoots!' said Hector, peevishly, for he wanted to go to sleep again,
'gang and mak luve till her. Nae lass 'll think o' meat as lang 's ye do
that. That 'll haud her ohn hungert.'

The words were like blasphemy in Robert's ear. He make love to Miss St.
John! He turned from the coach-door in disgust. But there was no place
he knew of where anything could be had, and he must return empty-handed.

The light of the fire shone through a little hole in the boards that
closed the window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided by that, he found
the road again, and felt his way up the stairs. When he entered the room
he saw Miss St. John sitting on the floor, for there was nowhere else to
sit, with the guard's coat under her. She had taken off her bonnet.
Her back leaned against the side of the chimney, and her eyes were bent
thoughtfully on the ground. In their shine Robert read instinctively
that Ericson had said something that had set her thinking. He lay on the
floor at some distance, leaning on his elbow, and his eye had the flash
in it that indicates one who has just ceased speaking. They had not
found his absence awkward at least.

'I hae been efter something to eat,' said Robert; 'but I canna fa' in
wi' onything. We maun jist tell stories or sing sangs, as fowk do in
buiks, or else Miss St. John 'ill think lang.'

They did sing songs, and they did tell stories. I will not trouble my
reader with more than the sketch of one which Robert told--the story
of the old house wherein they sat--a house without a history, save the
story of its no history. It had been built for the jointure-house of a
young countess, whose husband was an old man. A lover to whom she
had turned a deaf ear had left the country, begging ere he went her
acceptance of a lovely Italian grayhound. She was weak enough to receive
the animal. Her husband died the same year, and before the end of it
the dog went mad, and bit her. According to the awful custom of the
ti