ouglas and Maud Lindesay out of the White Tower, where
they had been abiding. Margaret had gone to bed, and, as was her
custom, Maud Lindesay sat awhile by her side. For so far as they could
they kept to the good and kindly traditions of Castle Thrieve. It
seemed somehow to bring them nearer home in that horrible place where
they were doomed to abide.

"Give me your hand, Maud, and tell on," said little Margaret, nestling
closer to her friend, and laying her head against her arm as she
leaned on the low bedstead beside her.

Margaret was gowned in a white linen night-rail, made long ago for the
marshal's daughter, little Marie de Retz, in the brighter days before
the setting up of the iron altar. Catherine, his deserted wife, had
been kind to the girls at Pouzages, and had given to both of them such
articles of garmenture as they were sorely in need of.

"Tell on--haste you," commanded little Margaret, with the
imperiousness of loving childhood, nestling yet closer as she spoke.
"It helps me to forget. I can almost think when you are speaking that
we are again at Thrieve, and that if we looked out at the window we
should see the Dee running by and Screet and Ben Gairn--and hear
Sholto MacKim drilling his men out in the courtyard. Why, Maudie, what
is the matter? I did not mean to make you cry. But it is all so sweet
to think upon in this place. Oh, Maudie, Maudie, what would you give
to hear a whaup whistle?"

Then drawing herself into a sitting posture, with her hands about
Maud's neck, she took a kerchief from under the pillow and dried her
friend's tears, murmuring the while, "Ah, do not cry, Maud, my vision
will yet come true, and you shall indeed see Ben Gairn and
Thrieve--and everything. I was dreaming about it last night. Shall I
tell you about it, sweet Maud?"

Maud Lindesay did not reply, not having recovered power over her
voice. So the little Maid of Galloway went on unbidden.

"Yes, I dreamed a glad dream yester-even. Shall I tell it you all and
all? I will--though you can tell stories far better than I.

"Methought that I and you--I mean, dear Maud, you and I, were sitting
together in the gloaming at the door of a little house up on the edges
of the moorland, where the heather is prettiest, and reddest, and
longest. And we were happy. We were waiting for some one. I shall not
tell you who, Maudie, but if you are good, and stop crying, you can
guess. And there was a ring on your finger, Maud. No, not