y in her
sprightly, pitying way.

'Now I'll tell ye a thing that I want to know,' said the maid, pouring
tea in a cup. 'What's his given name? Will ye tell me that?'

'Is it Mr. Kinnaird ye mean?'

'It's Mr. Kinnaird's christened name that I'm speering for.'

'An' I canna tell ye that, for he never told it to me. It'd be no place
of mine to ask him before he chose to speak o' it himsel'.'

'Did ye never see a piece of paper that had his name on it, or a card,
maybe?'

'I dinna mind that I have, Jeanie. He's a verra fine gentleman; it's
just Mr. Kinnaird that he's called.'

'What for will ye no let me tell the master that he comes every day?'

'Ye must no tell my father, Jeanie Trim'--querulously. 'No, no; nor my
mither. They'll maybe be telling him to bide away.'

'Why would they be telling him to bide away?'

'Tuts! How can I tell ye why, when I dinna ken mysel'? Why will ye fret
me? I'll tak' no more tea. Tak' it away!'

'I tell ye he'll ask me if ye took it up. He's waiting now to hear that
ye took a great big piece of bread tae it. He'll no eat the bread and
cheese I've set before him till ye've eaten this every crumb.'

'Is that sae? Well, I maun eat it, for I wouldna have him wanting his
meat.'

The meal finished, the maid put on her most winsome smile.

'Now and I'll tell ye what I'll do; I'll go back to Mr. Kinnaird, and
I'll tell him ye sent yer _love_ tae him.'

'Ye'll no do sic a thing as that, Jeanie Trim!' All the dignity and
authority of her long womanhood returned in the impressive air with
which she spoke. 'Ye'll no do sic a thing as that, Jeanie Trim! It's no
for young ladies to be sending sic messages to a gentleman, when he
hasna so much as said the word "love."'

Had he ever said the word 'love,' this Kinnaird, whose memory was a
living presence in the chamber of slow death? The minister believed that
he had not. There was no annal in the family letters of his name,
although other rejected suitors were mentioned freely. Had he told his
love by look or gesture, and left it unspoken, or had look and gesture
been misunderstood, and the whole slight love-story been born where it
had died, in the heart of the maiden? 'Where it had died!'--it had not
died. Seventy years had passed, and the love-story was presently
enacting itself, as all past and all future must for ever be enacting to
beings for whom time is not. Then, too, where was he who, by some means,
whether of his own volition o